T3 Truth, Trump, Television

T3 truth, Trump and Television

Our alarm went off at 3 a.m. My husband and I struggled out of bed to watch  Trump's speech on the insane war of choice. 

One of the joys of living in Europe, is being able to switch from news programs to news programs from many countries.¨We don't have to believe the propaganda from any one government, group of media media mogols or billionaires. And of course there's a long list of news sources from many places most who have reporters there.. 

We switched to Franc 24, Al Jazeera and BBC after the spech. They did not believe what the U.S. President claimed. These stations are NOT financed by the same mega companies financing much of what is fed to the U.S. public.

It wasn't the first time that all have questioned the veracity of the American president. That is a regular occurrence. None have said outright he is a liar. None used the taunt, "Liar, liar, pants on fire," but it was phrased every other way possible.

Other countries have no faith in the U.S. unlike what Trump has said about other countries respecting America, another lie.

Phrases used by them all were the same  not just for this latest speech, but when quoting much of what Trump says.

• Stretching the facts
• Factlesss
• Avoiding reality
• Misleading
• Misrepresented
• Made up numbers
• Likely false
• Exaggerated

That Trump is upset that allies have not come to U.S. aid is no surprise. You don't insult your allies and then expect them to help you in an illegal war both under U.S. national law and under international law.

The world has been thrown in chaos by one man of dubious mental capacity and even less morals. It will take years for the U.S. and others to dig out of his mess he has created if we/they will ever be able to.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch.64-64

 

 

Chapter 64

Boston to Lexington

April 18, 1775

JAMES HOLLOWAY fell asleep early. During the last two days he’d put in long hours. The General had sent him hither and yon to find leaders of different regiments to put together a force of about 700 men to go to Lexington and Concord to seize the weapons that had so long evaded him.

James had no idea when it would happen, but it would be soon, he knew that. He also knew he would march to Lexington and Concord with his regiment.

Dealing with the General had been exhausting, so it had been a relief when the General ordered him to go to his barracks and get as much sleep as he could.

He had been told by the General at least five times to not say a word to anyone, including his fellow soldiers. James certainly wouldn’t confide in Mollie Clark, with whom he had taken two walks. They had pretended to meet by accident and only went a short distance together to not upset her father.

Nor would he tell Sally Brewster. She didn’t seem to care one way or another who was ruling Boston. People need fire buckets no matter what government was in control, she claimed. She was totally involved in her painting and not just on the buckets. Last week she had brought out her drawings with the caveat, “They aren’t very good.”

“They’re very good, including the drawing of me in uniform,” he had told her only to watch her blush as she did whenever he complimented her. If he were to look for a wife, she would make an excellent one, but it was a big if. Not just because he had so little money to support a wife, the world around him was becoming more unsettled with talk of insurrection.

He knew the General was determined to round up cannons, powder, cartridges, ammunitions, tents, shovels, food, whatever might be used against the troops.

He also knew the General was under pressure from London to solve the uprisings. He didn’t need the General to tell him London did not understand the reality of Massachusetts.

James wasn’t sure if the General understood either. Both from what he read and in his talks with Mrs. Gage, James understood the point of view of the patriots as well as the army.

His parents had had an attitude based on tales handed down from the time of Oliver Cromwell that the ordinary man lived at the whim of whoever was in power, be it the mayor, landlord or king. That people had the right to establish their own rules for their own lives seemed unrealistic, but at the same time very appealing.

James always had had the ability to fall asleep anywhere. Not recently.

Different thoughts ran through his mind, but they disappeared almost as quickly as they came. On April 18, 1774, his thoughts were of how the General had said to Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith and Major John Pitcairn, who were among the leaders of the planned march and search mission, to not steal from the locals. When James turned on his left side, he thought of the General saying, “I don’t want to hurt anyone or destroy any property.”

How that would be possible with some 700 well-trained, armed men against the stubborn rebels, he wasn’t sure. James often had feelings about things that came true. He had chalked up his worry that something would happen to his wife when she was pregnant as just stupid worry. It had come true. More than once, he had thought a thunder or hailstorm would come. The times were not so numerous that James considered he had any special gift. “I’m just observant,” he told himself.

Having a bad feeling about the mission was natural considering all the tensions. If only the rebels didn’t fight about paying taxes. If only the rebels would give up their damned weapons, things would quiet down.

The men had many names: rebels, patriots, colonists, loyalists … but loyal to whom? Not everyone was angry at the King.

“Wake up, wake up.” James swatted at his ear. He opened his eyes and tried to keep them open. Corporal Tilley came into focus. He was holding a candle. “Get dressed. Full uniform. Cartridge pouch, cartridges, everything. Be quiet as ghosts.”

James knew it was wrong to ask why. An order was an order. When he sat up, he saw three of his fellow privates struggling into their uniforms. Corporal Tilley was moving the room whispering into the ear of each private.

There were whispers of “what is this for?”

Corporal Tilley hearing the whispers rushed over and took the speaker by the shoulders and whispered the order, “Shut up.”

James was sure this was what the General had been planning. 

Chapter 65

Boston to Lexington, Massachusetts

April 18-19, 1775

HAVING 700 MEN, more or less, in boots march through Boston streets without making any noise was impossible. They went in formation, four to a row by regiment. James knew from the planning meetings there would be 21 companies of Grenadiers and Light Infantry, the elite soldiers of the army. Grenadiers were chosen for their height and courage.

Grenadiers without their bear-fur hats were taller than many. The hats made them more frightening.

The highly trained Light Infantry had a reputation for courage and speed.

He caught a glimpse of Danny carrying his drum. The batons were stuck between his chest and the leather belt from which the drum was suspended. No drumming. They were under an order of silence.

Winter had left. Spring had not taken its place. The air was cold with a light wind.

James was sure that everyone marching was curious about where they were going. He wasn’t going to tell them.

The Cambridge salt marsh stank of sea, not the clean smell of waves breaking on a beach but of decaying leaves and fish. The water was knee-high. The troops waded across leaving their feet and legs wet.

On the other side of the marsh, they waited and waited for boats to bring provisions. James had no idea what those provisions were. He had no memory of the General discussing this aspect of the exercise. Perhaps, he thought, it was when he was running errands.

Some of the officers were on horseback but he couldn’t make out who was who. Clouds hid what moonlight there was.

James wasn’t sure of the time that everything was organized to move but he guessed it was about two in the morning.

******

The troops had been marching for a good two hours. James was tired. His work as an orderly reduced his physical training. He held his Brown Bess in the correct position, but his fingers were stiff. His gun was loaded. His pouch was stuffed with more powder and cartridges.

Over the tramping he heard owls calling.

The troops marched down roads with stone walls on each side. Woods or farms were behind those walls and behind those were farmhouses, although only when the moon escaped the clouds could he see them. No candles burned in the windows in the middle of the night.

In the distance, James heard bells. A signal? Someone could have spotted them. This was the same he’d taken in March on the General’s mission.

Mostly, he wanted to be back in his bed surrounded by the snores of his fellow soldiers.

His boots and stockings were still wet from wading through the salt marsh. The stocking on his left foot had bunched, causing discomfort every time he put his foot down. He imagined breaking formation, fixing it, then rushing to reclaim his space. Soldiers didn’t do that, but he knew although he wore the uniform and although he would keep his word, he was not meant to be a soldier.

As he marched, he knew finally, the minute his contract was up, he would definitely find another life.

Regret?

If he regretted anything it was that his wife and daughter had died and that he had not had control over the family bakery. At the same time, had his life unfolded that way, the experiences he would have missed.

James was aware he could always see more than one side on any issue, leaving him confused. Knowing how farmers felt about their land at home, he understood how the rebels felt here, but he also had trouble imagining not having a king. Oliver Cromwell had pretty much proven that was a bad idea. The stories of Cromwell’s fanaticism had been handed down through the generations in his family about the same way the bakery had.

Danny’s drum was still quiet. He could hear the hooves of the officers’ horses. He imagined he saw a man duck down behind a stone wall, but in the moonlight. He credited it with just that — his imagination.

At least he hoped it was his imagination. Between Dr. Church and his own spying, he knew the farmers were gaining strength, not just in stolen weapons, but they were training, using the same manual as the British.

The sun began its climb bringing light to the troops.

Danny began drumming to direct their movements.

Even if the troops had been told the goal in detail, James knew from listening to his last conversation between the General and Lt. Colonel Smith they were to secure the North and South bridges and then find the missing cannons.

Sunrise.

My God, James thought as his regiment arrived at the North Bridge. The militia was waiting for them. Unlike the British, they had no uniforms. Their clothes were the ones they wore to work the fields and milk the cows. Their ages were from teenagers to grandfathers. Are they as nervous as I am, he wondered? Or are they more so being less well trained? How well trained are they? Had they sent for reinforcements from other villages?

He chided himself for having sympathy for his opponents.

Although they were not supposed to fire, he heard a gunshot. He didn’t know if it came from the British or the rebels. Pandemonium followed. Despite all the practice of orderly formations with the front row firing and then marching to the back to reload, the soldiers spread out and seemed to be firing at will.

The smell of gunfire was overwhelming.

Danny? He didn’t have a gun. He had promised to take care of him. Where was he? Then he heard the drum. In the confusion, he wasn’t sure of the message.

Then his stomach was torn apart.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch 62-63

 

 

Chapter 62

Boston, Massachusetts

February

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m here. What can’t you believe?”

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

“What did he say.”

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

“You’re joking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe they could make it work, Daphne thought.

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

“Yes, I’m leaving Gareth.”

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

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

“Anytime.”

“You may want to check with Yves.”

“I’ll message you back.”

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

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

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

Chapter 63

Geneva, Switzerland

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Collette, French Bank and Marseille

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A robbery?"

We waited.

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

An overnight trip, a lifetime of memories.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 60-61

 

Chapter 60

French Autoroute

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 61

Boston to Lexington, Massachusetts

March 5, 1775

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you must be on a spy mission.”

“Shh.”

******

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

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

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

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

“Nor I yours.”

“Not from around here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

 

 

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

 

Chapter 58

St. Gallen, Switzerland

 WHAT MAKES A good writing day?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Word Fairy!

Chapter 59

Boston and Salem, Massachusetts

February 1775 

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” the General said to the maid.

“Lieutenant Colonel Leslie is here.”

“Send him in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leslie said nothing as the General yelled and yelled.

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

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

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

“Of course, I know it, idiot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, I do.”

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

“And then …”

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

“Their reaction?” the General asked.

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

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

“Any boat we might use had been sabotaged.”

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

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

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

“What did he say?”

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

“So did anyone fire?”

“You have to see …”

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

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

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

“It might have felt good if you had.”

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

“What happened?”

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

“To what purpose?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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