Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch 16-17

 

Chapter 16

Winchester, England

May 1773

 

 

JAMES HOLLOWAY HAD never been so tired in his life. He barely remembered collapsing on his thin mattress last night. What seemed like seconds later, he was being woken to start a new day. It was like that every day.

He’d been with the 43^rd Regiment of Foot just under three weeks, as they traveled to Winchester. Serjeant Longworth, when he had recruited them, promised they would see things they never thought they would see. The route was mainly a blur of ordinary trees, farms and villages with a few larger places.

When they had first arrived last night, a full moon illuminated the camp that would be his home, his base. It was surrounded by a high stone wall. A sentinel opened the wooden gate, the height of three men.

They marched more or less in step to a barrack, one of several. Serjeant Longworth lit a lantern so the men could see 40 beds close together. All were empty. On closer inspection, James saw the beds were folding cots with a strip of cloth for a sheet and a pillow. A footlocker was at the foot of each bed.

Inside the barrack where they slept that first night and before Corporal Carver slammed his private door, James peeked inside the room. There was a single cot where Carver must sleep and a footlocker. He guessed the room was about nine by nine.

As soon as the recruits were dressed, Carver ordered them to make their beds and stand at attention. “You’ll learn the basics: marching, loading a gun, shooting. Then you’ll be integrated into the rest of the regiment, although there will be other recruits arriving. Three corporals and two serjeants will be the people you’ll learn to obey without question.”

When Corporal Carver hollered, “Get dressed,” James realized he had never undressed but fallen asleep half-covered by his blanket, the itchy one carried from home. “And get this pigsty cleaned before breakfast.” Corporal Carver returned to his room.

On the way to the mess hall, James witnessed other soldiers who had been with the regiment for who knows how long. All were in uniform. They marched in groups of 20, four rows of five. None glanced at the recruits in their motley assortment of clothes.

James had no idea where Serjeant Longworth had gone. Maybe he had a wife and/or children. Maybe with his higher rank, his quarters were better. Maybe he was searching for more recruits, this time toward the Scottish border.

James was fourth in the line of the nine men as they entered the mess hall where cold porridge was slapped on their plates. Not sure when he would be able to eat again, James made sure that he left nothing.

No sooner had he swallowed his last mouthful when Corporal Carter barked, “Move it!” He marched the nine men to another building with a door so low James ducked to enter.

Stairs led to a room partially underground. Windows three quarters up the wall let in sunshine but not enough to limit the chill that was surprising for June. Maybe it was the thick stonewalls that kept the cold in. James shivered in his shirt and leather jacket.

Another serjeant stood as the men lined up.

“I’m Serjeant Anderson. I will be with you every second of every day. I will even be in your nightmares if you don’t do everything I say, the second I say it.” He slapped a baton onto his palm. Walking up and down the line of men, he hit Thomas Miller on the shoulder. “Stand straight.”

Thomas thew his shoulders back.

A table was under the windows. Three men in uniform sat on a bench behind the table with papers, quill pens and an ink well in front of each of them.

James was third in line to approach the first man.

“Name?” the first man at the table barked. James wondered if any of the officers could speak in a normal tone. To each of the answers, the man dipped a quill pen into the ink well and wrote the answers on a piece of paper.

“James Holloway.”

“From?”

“Ely.”

“What did you do before?”

James almost asked, “Before what?” but instead said, “I was a baker.”

“I WAS A BAKER, SIR!”

“I WAS A BAKER, SIR!”

The man cocked his head as if to decide if he were being mocked or obeyed.

“Can you read?”

“I read very well. I am good with numbers. I had to be between the formulas for the bread and accounts.”

James wished he knew the markings for ranks. If the man was a scribe, he couldn’t be all that high up. He also had to be higher than himself. Looking at the paper where the scribe took notes, James could see how cramped the writing was. He was sure that all the new recruits’ information would fit on that one piece of paper. After all, paper was expensive.

Ely had known one papermaker. Before Bess, James had debated courting the his daughter. She had shown him the process of converting flax into paper and how they could remove dirty spots for a quality product. The paper the serjeant was using was not high quality, but then did it matter?

“Age?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Married?”

“Widower.”

“Move on.”

The second man sitting at the table had a box. He reached in and handed James several pound notes. “This is your sign-up fee. Use it to buy uniforms and pay for your meals until you’re paid at the end of the month. Then they will take your expenses from your pay before you even see it. Move on.”

The third seat was empty. James wasn’t sure what to do. Someone had been there. He looked at the second man at the table who was handing money to his friend Thomas.

Before he could ask, the third man appeared. He had a tape measure around his neck. He smiled and took James and Thomas into a small room. One wall had shelves covered with bolts of cloth, mostly red and white. There was one shelf with black and another with green cloth. Button boxes with different size buttons, large spools of thread and leather strips dwarfed other shelves.

“I will measure both of you and make the minimum uniforms: you’ll need one for dress and one for every day. I can also provide you with everything else you might need, but the uniforms are mandatory. And that includes the stockings. Wool is good for winter, but hell in summer. You’ll be better with silk. Bit more expensive. No one cares what you wear underneath.”

James noticed the man was in uniform. “You’re not a civilian.”

The man nodded. “Name is Taylor. My whole family for generations has been tailors. Probably where the name came from. When I joined up, the brass decided I could best serve in my old profession.”

“My family were bakers, but my name’s not Baker,” James said.

“What about the hats?” Thomas asked.

“You’re in luck. Several soldiers mustered out leaving their hats that you can buy at a fraction of the cost of having one made. You’ll be in luck if your head fits one. Fit is important. They can be bloody uncomfortable on a long march if they aren’t.”

Taylor opened a door of an armoire that neither Thomas nor James had noticed. Shelf after shelf were filled with tall, black fur hats. “Try them on. See if any fits.”

James guessed that the hats were about a foot and a half. He lifted one. “It’s heavy.”

“Somewhere between a pound and two. Bearskin, black bearskin from Canada. The female bear’s fur is thicker. Makes the hat heavier.”

The first one James tried slipped down to almost cover his eyes.

“Won’t do,” Taylor laughed. It was the first laughter James had heard since arrival.

The second hat was much too small. The third fit perfectly.

Thomas had better luck. The first one he tried fit. “Did they, the soldiers who left, I mean, did they sell their hats back. Their uniforms.”

Taylor frowned. “If you can find some old uniforms that are in good condition you can buy those too.” He pointed to a rack, almost solid red with the coats being crammed together. Another rack had what was considered their everyday uniforms.

Thomas and James exchanged looks. In tandem, they went to the racks and started holding different pants, vests, coats and shirts up to test the size.

“Here’s what you need if you can read.” Going through the list they found everything they needed except for the dress uniform coat. The tailor measured them. “It will take a couple of weeks. There’s nine new men to outfit this time.” He glanced at their boots.

Serjeant Anderson burst in. “Hurry up. You’ve five more soldiers to outfit.”

“I’m working as fast as I can. They still need proper boots.” James noticed there was no “sir” in his comments. “You men can find the boot maker to the left of the commissary. Don’t skimp. Your feet will take a lot of damage on marches. Right, Serjeant Anderson?”

“He’s right. We don’t slow down for blisters.”

Taylor held out his hand for payment which was just under half of the sign-up bonus.

They left by a different door than they had entered.

“If we had ordered everything new, our money would be all gone,” Thomas said.

James wondered if he’d done the right thing to join, but then again it certainly was more interesting than being a baker.

 

 

Chapter 17

Winchester, England

June 1773

 

 

“MOVE! SERJEANT ANDERSON pointed at James Holloway and Thomas Miller. Although they were only halfway through their porridge, they rose in perfect synchronization.

Probably, James thought all that marching in formation day after day made their bodies function as one. Army life was getting as boring as his daily chores at the bakery. No, make that more so.

They followed the serjeant to a one-story wooden building at the north end of the camp. They had been by it several times but had no idea what was in it. Anderson unlocked a door crisscrossed with iron bars with a hand-sized key hanging from his belt.

The wooden shutters over the windows had the same iron bars in the same pattern as the door. Enough light filtered in after Serjeant Anderson opened them to see walls covered with shelves. Every shelf had wooden boxes with labels. The writing was too small for James to read.

Four long, narrow tables were in the middle of the room.

“We need nine of those boxes.” Sergeant Anderson pointed to a shelf.

Thomas lifted five, James four. From lifting bags of flour James guessed his four boxes together weighed about 50 or 60 pounds.

“Take them to the Center. MOVE IT! I’ll meet you there.”

The Center contained the kitchen and dining area where they had just almost finished their porridge and a big room that would hold maybe 100 soldiers — more depending if they were on benches, standing or sitting on the floor.

Thomas and James arrived and kicked at the door.

“The bloody door is unlocked,” a voice said from the other side.

“Our arms are full,” James said.

“Well put the stuff down then open it and pick them up again.”

“Serjeant Anderson said not to.” Thomas smirked at James as shuffling on the other side was followed by the door being opened. It was one of the cooks who usually growled as he dropped food onto their outstretched plates.

“Can you get that other door?” James tilted his head toward the meeting room.

“Alright, alright.” The man slouched over to it. His attitude was that of a civilian who didn’t give a damn about army discipline, James guessed.

Inside the room, benches were stored against the wall except for four toward the front where there was a platform not high enough to be called a stage.

“Where should we put them?” Thomas asked.

“Here.” James put his on the elevation. “I’m sure we’ll find out more any minute.”

Before Thomas could add anything, Anderson and the rest of the recruits walked in.

“Each of you take one box and open it. Don’t damage it. Save the nails.”

Before James could ask if they had to use their bare hands, Anderson went to a trunk and pulled out a claw hammer. “When you’re done, nail the box back up. That’s why you idiots are saving the nails.”

The sounds of wood ripping were followed by Anderson yelling every few minutes, “Don’t damage the boxes.”

When James was handed the hammer, he removed the nails one by one until the top came off. He thought the wood was pine based because of its softness and knot holes. Inside was a musket which he guessed was almost but not quite five feet long. When he set it on the floor, the muzzle came to his arm pit. It would have been almost as tall as his wife.

The wood and metal on the weapon shone.

“That will be your best friend from now on, a Brown Bess,” Anderson said.

James had heard of Brown Bess muskets. It still made him a bit uncomfortable that the musket that would be a part of his daily life had the same name as his late wife.

“Holloway, are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Get your muskets and sit on the benches. Far enough away that you can move around without hitting each other.”

When they were seated with the muskets across their lap, Serjeant Anderson stood on the platform, with another Brown Bess in his hand. He rattled off the names of each part.

Muzzle

Bayonet Lug

Rammer

Stock Tip or Nose part

Forward pipe

Sling Swivel

Second Pipe

Barrel

Tail Pipe

Swell

Stock

Lock

Sling Swivel

Trigger

Guard Bow

Escutcheon Plate

Trigger Guard Plate

Comb

Butt Flange

Butt

Tang

Toe

Heel

Butt Plate

“Hell, I thought a gun was a gun. It has more parts than a woman in heat,” Thomas whispered.

Anderson put his Brown Bess on the table and walked over to Thomas, his legs apart and his hands on his hips. “You have something to say, Recruit Miller?”

“No Sir.”

“Good.” He walked back to the gun and repeated the parts with everyone repeating after him. He changed the order from the bottom up and then from the middle down and the middle up. He then mixed up the order and had them call out the name of the part he touched.

“Lunch. When we come back, I have two old guns. You will take them apart and put them back together. We won’t risk you messing up one of these new beauties.”

James looked at his newly assigned musket: it was a beauty. If he’d had one like that, he probably would have been a more successful hunter. “When do we begin target practice?”

“You don’t. Bullets are far too precious to waste except in the body of the enemy. You practice loading. The faster you load, the faster you can shoot.”

 

Menopause: Two Cultures, Two Languages

 

"Gotta pee, gotta pee." A middle-aged actress ran across the stage. I'd just arrived from Europe for the Christmas holiday in 2004. My friend said I had to see Menopause, the Musical, so there were we were at the Stuart Street Playhouse in Boston.

Four menopausal women met on a department store lingerie floor. Despite very different backgrounds, they bonded in story and song. Popular songs were adapted such as: "We're having a heat wave, a tropical heat wave"  to become "We're having a hot flash a tropical hot flash." 

What fun, but there was a lot of truth in the adaptations of all the songs.

Flash forward to 6 March in Southern France. I saw an advert for Menopause in Perpignan. What would it be like in French? What would be the music? How would it transcend two different cultures? Along with my husband and a good friend we went to find out:

• Four menopausal women of different backgrounds bonded on a lingerie department floor. The same.
• Similar staging captured the flavor of the store. 
• Songs, although French popular ones, were turned into parodies. Same concept.
• The American and French crowds laughed almost constantly. 
• Through the humor came truth, a universality.

I was proud of myself, that I knew almost all the music and loved the Claude François parody. (He was the real writer of My Way not Paul Anka). I did miss some references and felt so good that my French friend did too. She had been in the States for several years and had missed out on the source of some of the references.

The show was a sell out. We had seats at the end of an aisle but one of them was an extension. As we waited for the start of the performance, a woman two seats away said that her friend couldn't come so one of us should take her friend's empty seat. We did.

So what did I come away with culturally having lived in both cultures.

• Some things are similar to everyone like menopause for women.
• Parody of popular music works with national adjustments.
• The same things can be funny across cultures when it has a universality. 

My husband, who is newer living outside the U.S., discovered laughter sounded the same in different languages. 

In researching the history of the musical, I discovered the musical has toured the U.S., played for three years in Las Vegas, was part of the entertainment on a cruise ship and has been translated to different localities and languages around the world. After twenty-two years, it is still relevant.

There was one difference. In Boston many of the audience ended on stage singing with the cast. In France the parody lyrics were flashed on a screen and the audience had a sing-along. Either way, there was a feeling on bonding.

Notes: Check out Menopause the Musical 2 - all the songs in 2 minutes! - YouTube English version

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel -Ch.14-15

 

Chapter 14

Ely, England

April 1773

 

 “YOU’RE BLOODY CRAZY!” William stopped filling the wooden trough leaving his clothing and arms covered with white flour. The smell of the beer foam, already in the trough, hung in the air. “Alice, make him see sense.”

James’ sister-in-law continued handing him faggots to put into the brick oven. He thought she must have heard but was pretending not to. His last chore here.

Although it was still too early to light the fire, he stopped what he was doing. There would have been no good time to make the announcement that he was joining the army. Not just joining but leaving within an hour. “When did you decide?”

“Last night. When I walked home from the Rooster.”

“LAST NIGHT? You are crazy!” William had two forms to show his anger. One was getting quieter and quieter, forcing whispers through his clenched lips. The alternative was screaming, but William used that far less. James always thought that he went quiet to maintain control because people had to lean closer to hear. When he did holler, it meant he’d lost control allowing anger to take over his mouth and body. He hollered the words “Last Night” and whispered, “You are crazy.”

“I need to get my things together.” James left the room. One staircase, behind the door to the far left of the oven, led to the family living space. A second staircase from the back of the family living space ended in the small attic room where James slept.

The door didn’t shut tightly. He needed to jiggle the iron bar to make it line up with the hook. When he and Bess had wanted to make love, they had to fiddle with it to give themselves privacy. Then they had thrown the horsehair mattress onto the floor to keep the metal bed frame from squeaking.

More than once they’d wondered about William and Alice’s sex life. “I feel sorry for Alice,” Bess had said. “William probably counts his thrusts.” It had sent them into such laughter, the kind where it is next to impossible to stop, that the next morning William had complained about the racket upstairs.

So many memories in this room, James thought. As a child he had shared it with William until all their three sisters had married, freeing the third bedroom.

William was two years older, already working in the bakery, while James at seven, still went to school. Their parents had insisted all their children learn to read, write and do basic addition and subtraction. Math was important to tally accounts and measure recipes.

From the day the children had entered school, they were expected to help with the business before and after class.

James had preferred school to working in the bakery: he didn’t hate the work, it just seemed so repetitious. He was good at it. He never thought there were alternatives until now.

As he grew older and stronger, kneading the dough in the trough was a release. If he were unhappy about someone, he would imagine their face in the dough as he pounded it with his fists. When a bully beat him up, he’d written the boy’s name in the dough and pounded on the letters.

Shaping the dough was alright too. Too often his mind drifted and the loaves would be uneven, earning him a swat first from his parents and later from William who took over the bakery after their parents died. William had been fifteen, James thirteen.

The only parts James really loved about the business were sales and deliveries, allowing him to get away for the better part of the afternoon and chat with clients.

Now he was going away for who knew how long. He sat on the bed and wondered if he would ever be back.

Alice stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”

James would miss Alice. What William would have been like without her calming influence, he had no idea. He motioned with his hand to a place next to him.

She sat on the bed next to the pile of the things he was taking.

“I understand why you want to get away. You’re young. You’ve suffered a great sadness.” She put her hand on his arm. “Maybe you could go next month. Give William a chance to find someone else.”

“I’m sure one of our nephews will come. “Stephen maybe. He loves being in Ely.”

“It’s a good idea. I’ll miss you.”

“And I you.” He realized it was true.

“I think I’m pregnant again.”

“I hope this time …” He didn’t need to say more. This could be the fifth miscarriage and he knew how much Alice wanted a baby. Her friends’ wives popped out infants annually.

“If it is like last time, William will really need someone.”

James remembered. Alice had been in bed with a fever for two weeks. No one thought she would survive. When she did, she couldn’t work for another month. Bess, although she was pregnant, had taken Alice’s place as well as doing her own work. Maybe that had added to Bess’ problems. Despite thinking that, he didn’t blame Alice, just cruel fate.

It was what it was.

Now fate had swooped down to say no it wasn’t what it was. It could be different.

He threw his few clothes on top of the woolen blanket and tied it so that there was a loop to carry. He had never been away from this house overnight before. It was only day trips and even those had been infrequent.

William was furious when he saw the blanket holding James’ clothes. “I’ll need that blanket for the apprentice I’ll have to find thanks to your abandonment.”

For a moment, James thought about leaving it. It was his blanket. Bess had made it, before their wedding, using her mother’s loom.

“Sorry, I’m taking it.” He wasn’t the least sorry.

James shut the door with a clack that the neighbors must have heard. It drowned out William’s, “Don’t come back when it doesn’t work out.”

It would be strange not to be ruled by a schedule of bread-making and selling, a routine as regular as any clock. He had a certain amount of pride in what he did. His grandmother and then his mother always said to do your best. Perhaps that is why the bakery had been so successful for so long.

In his grandmother’s day they might use more rye. Now they used wheat flour, but they had never added alum like some other bakers did.

None of that mattered now. He was onto a new life, and he would still do his best, only he hoped he had more passion for whatever lay ahead of him. 

Chapter 15

The road to Winchester, England

April 1773

 

 

THE ROUTE TO Winchester was one hundred and fifty-two miles through farmlands, villages and forests. Travelers followed rock-strewn dirt paths. At best, the new soldiers could only make about ten miles on a good day.

In two villages, they stayed an extra day to recruit other young men. Corporal Carver and Serjeant Longworth increased their number from eight to ten.

If James Holloway found the forest route boring, the slightly bigger cities of Cambridge and Newmarket were interesting. He wondered why he had never gone to Cambridge which was close to Ely.

He had wanted his life to be different for so long: now it was, but it seemed strange to not being locked into a routine.

His fellow recruits, including his friend Thomas Miller, were all between 18 and 25. They bounced over the paths in a wooden cart pulled by two horses. Corporal Carver and Serjeant Longworth rode on horseback alternating with one ahead and one behind the cart as if they were afraid the men would escape.

One man did escape.

Benjamin had joined on their fourth day. It was a night when they slept on the ground in a wood near a stream after catching trout and picking wild strawberries. It was one of the best meals they had eaten since leaving Ely.

When the future foot soldiers woke on the fifth morning of the trek, Benjamin was gone. At first, they thought he might be in the woods relieving himself. Then they noticed his blanket and clothes had disappeared. He hadn’t taken anything not belonging to him.

Serjeant Longworth screamed, “This is why we don’t give anyone the sign-up money until you’re at the barracks.”

Corporal Carver ignored the rant as he hitched the horses to the cart. For some reason, the recruits couldn’t understand why only Carver took care of the horses, especially Thomas who thought he could have done it better. All other chores, making the fire to cooking the dinner from the supplies or what they had foraged, clearing an area in the woods to sleep, guarding them in turns during the night were done by the recruits.

No tents protected them when they went to sleep. Instead, they gathered branches for lean-tos. Fortunately, it didn’t rain during the trip.

April nights could still be chilly, and they’d wrapped themselves in the blankets they had brought from home. James was glad that he hadn’t left his with William. Even if Bess had made it, it was rough and scratchy. Why he thought the army would provide softer blankets he had no idea.

The cart had hard wooden benches creating a pain in their bums reminding James of his father’s paddlings when he misbehaved. Sitting on his clothes bundle as they bumped along helped a little.

He didn’t want to think about the splinter that embedded itself in his right hand when he grabbed the wooden seat as he was jostled about.

On the third day, his hand become infected. By sucking the infection then spitting out, the pus it began healing. James said nothing. A brave soldier would not complain.

The recruitment serjeant had promised they would see things they never thought they would see if they stayed at home.

In Newmarket they saw incredibly beautiful horses. “Bred for racing,” Carver said. “Big races since forever.” The ambiance was so different from their first stop in Cambridge.

In Cambridge students dominated the streets slowing the cart’s progress. Longworth pulled up to a pub/hostel where he’d stayed with recruits on other trips. They found real beds and a bar that served food.

“Look around, but be back before dark,” Serjeant Longworth ordered.

James did just that. The streets were filled with students. A boat floated down the river carrying five students, one in the back pushing it with a stick.

He wasn’t sure how to describe the color of the different university building bricks: white, gray, brown, a mixture. What were the turrets for?

Hungry, he headed back to the place they were staying. The ground floor room was long and dark with rectangular tables and benches. The smell of burning wood and meat cooking made him hungrier.

He had taken enough coins from home to wolf down a good meal of beef topped off with some of the best beer he’d ever tasted. Although the bread was good, he felt his family produced better.

Four of his fellow recruits joined him as the room filled with students and three families until there wasn’t a free place. The noise level ebbed and flowed as people stopped talking to eat.

Although James had finished his meal, he wasn’t in a rush to leave. He loved the atmosphere, especially with the students. What would it be like to be a student? To roam the halls of those huge brick buildings?

Despite the babble, he picked up bits of conversations.

“The formula won’t work.”

“Marcus Actorius Naso had to have lived during Caesar’s time.”

“He may have known him.”

Two boys to his left were speaking in another language. James didn’t understand. Maybe it was Latin.

He heard students discuss a young girl in town who was more than happy to open her legs. “And very nice legs they are too.”

Suddenly, Serjeant Longworth stood behind him. “Go to bed. We are leaving very early in the morning.”

I’m in the army and have to do as I’m told, he thought. He shivered, thinking it wasn’t that different from William telling him what to do.

In his bed that night, James thought back at how much he had enjoyed school and again wished he could be a student here worrying about someone named Marcus Actorius Naso and a pretty girl’s legs.

He rolled over, tucking his hands under his head. I’ve changed my life and I should be satisfied, he thought. I should. I will have adventures these students won’t. That should be enough. Maybe.

Note: Tomorrow in Chapters 16 and 17, James will discover the rigors of army life. He'll get his uniform and will learn about weapons.