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

 

Chapter 58

St. Gallen, Switzerland

 WHAT MAKES A good writing day?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Word Fairy!

Chapter 59

Boston and Salem, Massachusetts

February 1775 

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” the General said to the maid.

“Lieutenant Colonel Leslie is here.”

“Send him in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leslie said nothing as the General yelled and yelled.

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

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

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

“Of course, I know it, idiot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, I do.”

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

“And then …”

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

“Their reaction?” the General asked.

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

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

“Any boat we might use had been sabotaged.”

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

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

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

“What did he say?”

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

“So did anyone fire?”

“You have to see …”

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

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

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

“It might have felt good if you had.”

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

“What happened?”

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

“To what purpose?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Julia's Free Write

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rick's Fee Write

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pipe b-b-b-omb?” asked MarkBob.

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

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

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

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

“Well, Ah’ll be…” said MarkBob.

I was lost for words.

D-L Free Write

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh no!" Irena cried.

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

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

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

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 56-57

 

Chapter 56

Boston, Massachusetts

February 1775

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James knew that the General was doing everything he could.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 57

Boston, Massachusetts

December

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

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

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

“Jason Jenkins. And you are Daphne.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still Jason didn’t speak.

“Speak,” Florence said.

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

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

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

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

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

“How does it end?”

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

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

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

Both women nodded.

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

“She shook her head. “I could learn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That might be a way.”

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

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

“Yes.” They said it in unison.

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

After he left, the women sat quietly.

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

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

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

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

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.