English is horrible to learn

The best way to learn English is to be born into an Anglo-speaking family. For everyone else on the planet, learning is fraught with frustrations. Here's one example:

OVER

The common pronunciation is Oh-ver. Put a D in front Dover, a UK city.

Put an R in front and it is a common name for a dog or a person who travels. Put the word Land in front of Rohver and it is vehicle.

CLOVER

Clover is pronounced cloh-ver. Take away the C and you have Loh-ver a person who loves. It stays the same.

Put an M in place of the Cl and you have Moo-ver.

This doesn't cover my Bostonian accent where to me the word over is pronounced ohveh but regional accents are for another blog.

There is an International Phonetic Alphabet which writes out words with symbols, but even that has limitations and has been changed over the years.

Because of different languages, when a person learns English, they bring idiosyncrasies of their own language into English just as Anglo speakers carry their idiosyncrasies into the new language.

I say one sentence in French and the French assume I'm from England, but that's because of my Bostonian accent. Who needs Rs when an H will do perfectly well. Try as I might, I can't roll the R like a French or Spanish speaker.

It's annoying when some American says to a person, "Speak English you're in America." They show their ignorance of the difficulty in learning and using a second language. 

When anyone mocks an accent, it shows they are unaware the second you leave your native area, you probably will have some kind of accent. After we moved to West Virginia from Boston my mother would call the grocery store to order. More than once she heard in the background, "It's that Damned Yankee. You take her. I can't understand her." 

The O in over is just one example of a vowel which is a sound produced with no constriction in the vocal tract. Like many vowels the geography of its placement determines if it is short or long, oh, ah, or even ooo. It doesn't explain why the change of os in clover and lover.

When my husband was taking French, he would ask the teacher why certain words were said like they were. She would shrug and say, "It's French." In learning English we might not want to research a word for its origins, its regional variations or maybe it's better to just shrug and simply say, "It's English" and memorize the correct pronunciation.

Note: IPA Chart with Sounds – International Phonetic Alphabet Sounds

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch26-27

 

Chapter 26

Boston, Massachusetts

September 1774

 

 THE STICKY DAYS of August gave way to the cooler mornings and evenings of September. Although days were still warm, the humidity had disappeared.

James Holloway had found during July and August his uniform and bearskin hat were almost unbearable. He’d developed a rash across his forehead that matched the hat’s rim. He much preferred the tricorn. He had learned in marching practice, it had to be slanted to one side to keep this Brown Bess from knocking it off.

Each morning when the wake-up bugle sounded, James jumped off his cot and stuck his head out the flap to check the weather. He noticed some of the trees on the Common were edged in red and yellow, but they were still attached to the tree.

He was in no hurry for winter to come. At the Green Dragon, where many of the regiments hung out evenings, those who had spent the previous winter told of snow up to their thighs and brutal winds off the harbor.

Thomas Miller, Moses Fletcher and James had been assigned to the crew renovating a big building that would make up the winter quarters of the 43^rd. It was located across a rough road between their camp and different types of buildings: houses, offices, shops, warehouses. Their future barracks had been a warehouse. The inside had been gutted by fire five years before, leaving a brick shell, but the walls were strong. The Military Governor Thomas Gage had turned it over to the 43^rd, 52^nd and 59^th regiments.

Other buildings had been appropriated for other regiments. The new laws had said soldiers could be quartered in private homes. No one liked that idea, neither the locals who feared the soldiers nor the soldiers who feared the locals.

Some troops felt that if soldiers were in private homes, they could serve as spies, which was what concerned locals. Some soldiers worried they would be killed in their beds and their bodies dumped in the harbor. Others felt it might be nice to be part of a family again. The talk to quarter soldiers in private homes remained talk.

James wished he could integrate more with locals. He didn’t understand why they thought they were different than the Englishmen and women with whom he’d grown up and who had been his customers. His brother had always told James he spent too much time talking: in reality, he had done more listening. He wondered if he could convince his superiors that he might be put to better use as a spy.

Instead, he was put to work on the warehouse renovation crew. He wasn’t unhappy with the assignment. He liked the measuring, sawing, fitting and nailing of the planks. He found once shown how to do something, he perfected it quickly. Seeing the renovation come together gave him pleasure.

About an hour into the workday of the second Monday in September, James carried wood planks to the second story floor. A man in civilian clothes approached him. The quality of his clothes indicated a certain status, or so James thought. The man wasn’t wearing a wig. His graying hair was tied back at the neck with a leather string.

“Soldier, can you give me a tour?”

A tour? James wasn’t sure what to do. What if the man was a Sons of Liberty scouting out where they could damage the soldiers?

John Tilley, the corporal in charge of the project, was away arranging for the delivery of more wood and nails. Because the project was ahead of schedule, the higher ups left the soldiers alone to get on with it. Tilley had been a carpenter in civilian life. He had a talent in teaching others. “If you ever leave the army, you’ll be able to earn your living as a builder,” he told James. “You’ve learned faster than anyone I’ve ever taught.

“If you ever leave the army.” Interesting phase. James didn’t hate his current life. In fact, it was pretty good. Instead of things being identical everyday as they had been in Ely, there was some variation. Sure, there were the marching drills and loading Brown Bess practice. Since he’d arrived, he had not had the chance to fire a precious bullet. There was talk that they might actually shoot a round or two late in September.

His life was fine for now, but not forever?

“I’m Thomas Gage,” the man said, “and you?”

Thomas Gage, that was the Governor’s name and a General. He had seen the man from a distance, but where was his uniform? “James Holloway. Private James Holloway.” In case it was General Gage, he put down the planks and saluted.

“We’re not in uniform. A salute isn’t necessary. I wasn’t about to wear my uniform on a building site where it would get filthy.” He brushed imaginary sawdust from his sleeves. “Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“No, Sir. This way.”

James started the tour on the ground floor, which was the most complete. All the time Gage peppered him with questions about the construction project. It made James uncomfortable.

He wasn’t sure how much his superiors wanted the general to know. Unlike many soldiers, James read well. He had been following news in the Boston Gazette and Country Journal. It was considered, he was told, a leading Sons of Liberty leading rag. His interest in the newspaper had been piqued by the wood carving print of an Indian on the upper left-hand corner of each edition.

From the newspaper, he’d learned that Gage had only assumed the governorship in May. His appointment was in response to what was now the infamous Tea Party. As a loyal British soldier, he shouldn’t admire the act, but something about the audacity combined with the imagination of dressing as Indians appealed to him. He would not, could not admit it to anyone, including Thomas.

James was aware from his reading that the Tea Party had backfired on the locals. The British issued four acts that had increased, not decreased the unrest — a bad cycle.

Gage been assigned Governor. Many privileges had been taken away from the locals. It was bad enough that they had closed the port of Boston, but the Massachusetts charter had been revoked, leaving the colony under the control of the Crown and its representatives.

If he was at the Green Dragon for a beer and in civilian clothes, he was more apt to hear the rumblings of the locals or at least that was true early on. Now as soon as the locals recognized him and any other soldiers, the mumblings stopped.

“And you, Private? You’re from …”

“Ely, Sir.”

“What did you do there?”

“I was a baker.”

“And being a baker qualifies you to be a carpenter?”

“Not really, Sir. Corporal Tilley is an excellent teacher. I learn quickly.”

“Show me some of work you did.”

James took the general over to the cupboards he’d built. They were plain and made of pine, but everything was perfectly aligned.”

“What else, Private?”

James showed him the stairs, again perfectly aligned and almost identical in height and width. There was a curve as they went to the second floor. The banisters and railings were also smooth.”

“Did you do the finishing?”

“No, Sir. Only the measuring, cutting and installing.”

“Hmm.” Gage rubbed his cheek with his left hand. James noticed he had a bandage on his hand, but he didn’t ask how the General might have been hurt. Privates don’t question generals, no matter how tempting.

“I gather you can read, write and know simple arithmetic?”

“Yes, Sir. My Mum insisted we go to school. She said we couldn’t be good bakers without these basics.”

“Your mum was right.” They heard footsteps approaching in the outer room.

“What’s going on? Who’s this man?” Corporal John Tilley joined them on the stairs.

He had a cloth bag containing nails of miscellaneous sizes slung over one shoulder. This he dropped onto a stack of lumber to his right. “Well, speak up, Private Holloway.”

“Don’t blame him. I demanded he give me a tour. General Thomas Gage. And you are Corporal …?”

*****

James walked back from the evening meal. He had finally grown accustomed to the spruce beer served with meals. The food was repetitive: pork, pork fat, dried peas, oatmeal, cheese. Sometimes vegetables were added although he was told those would disappear when the weather grew colder. He didn’t want to spend his money for food at the inns scattered around the city. Saving was important although he wasn’t sure what he was saying for exactly. After was all he knew. After, when he was once again a civilian. He did not know when an opportunity would come. He hoped he would know it when it did. In the meantime, it was fun to imagine different things that might happen in the future.

For the first time since he arrived, he could see his breath.

Thomas was heading for the Green Dragon, but James didn’t want to spend the night nursing a real beer, not spruce beer. The reaction of locals bothered him. They kept saying how the Crown was destroying them, but not if they thought soldiers were among them. By now he had been identified as a soldier. He hated how quiet fell when he walked in. He wanted to say he didn’t want to hurt them. Couldn’t they calm down and follow the laws?

His alternative was going to bed early. A good night’s sleep would be welcome. His muscles had become used to the type of movements he needed to do in the renovation — or they had almost become accustomed.

Corporal Tilley was sitting on James’ cot. “What the hell did you say to the General?”

James recounted as much of the conversation as he remembered. Had he given away any secrets that the lower echelons would want hidden from the top brass?

Although Tilley was a slightly higher rank, they had spent so many days working on the warehouse renovation that they were more relaxed than they might otherwise be if they were on more military-type assignments. He felt he could ask, “Why?”

“Because Gage has requested you report to him in the morning?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“He wants to make you his orderly.” 

 

Chapter 27

Boston, Massachusetts

August

 

 “LET ME DRIVE,” Daphne Andrews said. What she didn’t say was that Florence DuBois’ driving scared her. “You direct me.”

“Why not? That way I can look around.”

Daphne didn’t say that she’d seen Florence look everywhere but the road on their other trips while driving. When Florence had hopped out of the driver’s side and handed her the keys, she felt relief

They had chosen a beautiful July day to drive from Boston to Lexington. A few puffy white clouds played peek-a-boo in the blue-blue sky. The humidity of the last three days seemed to be taking a holiday from causing people to sweat excessively. It was replaced by a gentle breeze that caressed the women’s faces as they changed places in front of Daphne’s Comm Ave. building.

“Clim, AC?” Florence asked.

“Do we need it?” Daphne fastened her seat belt and started the engine. It was an automatic. In Scotland she only drove standards, but it was easier going from standard to automatic than the other way around.

Florence shook her head as she fastened her seat belt on the passenger side. They pulled into traffic.

The two women has been in almost constant contact to discuss their project after their visit to Louisa May Alcott’s house. They had rushed through the rooms, barely thinking of Beth, Meg, Jo and Amy. By the time they had returned to the car, they were bursting with ideas including how it could be educational and fun or perhaps fun and educational.

So far they had agreed to make it for 11-14-year-olds, boys and girls. The story would be set around the first battle of the American Revolution.

Daphne was amazed at the speed with which everything was coming together, or at least the direction they needed to take to proceed. One of the first steps was to go to Minute Man National Park in Lexington. They had an appointment with an historian to find more information on how young boys and girls in the 1700s lived.

Daphne’s job would be to transform those lives in 1774-1775 into the words for a comic book. Although she’d already started research, the women wanted to verify what would become the comic’s details. “Accuracy, accuracy, accuracy,” had become their moto.

Florence would create the drawings. Both women wanted to make the colonial kids witnessing the events before, during and after the April 18, 1775 Battle of Lexington to be interesting to today’s kids.

Their project had been delayed by the American Fourth of July and the July 14 French Fête Nationale called Bastille Day locally. Both women had been caught up in official celebrations. Daphne still thought it was dumb for the British consulate to be involved in the July Fourth holiday marking England’s loss until Florence said, “Look at it this way, you got rid of 13 pesky colonies.”

“The festivities at the French Cultural Center were fantastic,” Daphne said. No wonder Florence had been busy working on the committee that produced a street party that included food, music, dancing. She didn’t say that Gareth had been furious when he had found out she’d gone.

“I wasn’t there officially,” she’d said. “With about 2,000 people milling around, I doubt if anyone would notice that the wife of the English Consul General was there.”

“You can never be unofficial,” he had said. He’d suggested she sleep in the spare room. At least she hadn’t had to listen to him snore.

Although the women hadn’t met face-to-face during their busy time, e-mails and messages had flown back and forth when either had a chance to share ideas about what the comic book would cover. They had tossed so many thoughts around, that had they executed them all they would have created a library. They were reaching a point where it was time to consolidate and organize their ideas.

They drove to Lexington via the Mass Pike and Route 128 then on the back roads to enjoy the countryside. Perhaps not the most efficient route, but the prettiest with the colonial-style homes and fields of loosestrife just beginning to bloom, creating a purple sea.

Although still in the early stages of their project, they found themselves thinking in the same vein on most things.

Florence pointed to the left. “Stop.”

Daphne pulled into a farm stand with a corn field behind.

“There’s nothing like fresh picked corn. The best is when you have the water boiling as you pick it. Trust me, a French woman, to appreciate anything to do with food.”

Back on the road with corn for dinner in the back seat, Florence said, “Working with you is fun.”

Daphne agreed. “Have you given more thought to having kids review what we do?”

“Yes, but where do we get them from? My step kids don’t count. They are older, in school in Switzerland and have never spent much time in the U.S. Also, they are biased toward their non-wicked stepmom so they would probably say it was good even if it isn’t. Does the staff at your consulate have kids? Most of our people are French.”

“Some are Brits with a few locals. I’m not sure if they have kids and if they do, I’m not sure how Gareth would feel about me asking.”

“He’s still not sold on this project?”

What an understatement, Daphne thought. He had forbidden her continuing. More and more he tried to dictate her daily activities, including what she should wear when she left the house. That was not a side she’d seen in their short courtship. When they had a commuter relationship between London and Edinburgh, they spent much of their time in bed with forays out for meals, theater and cinema.

“I’m still hoping he’ll come around.” Daphne remembered her mother cautioning her to think carefully when Daphne had introduced him to her a week before their marriage. “Not that I don’t like him,” her mother had added. “How can I when I don’t know him. Nor do you.” Still her parents said they would support whatever she did. They always had. They would say their piece and then, as if there were a lock between their thoughts and tongue, cheer Daphne on no matter what decision she made.

“We could get five, maybe ten kids, 11-13 years old, serve cake, ice cream.”

“Great idea. Approach a school?” Then Daphne wouldn’t have to deal with Gareth.

They arrived at the Minute Man parking lot. There were only three other cars.

As they walked near the wooden North Bridge, Florence said, “Look,” and pointed to a small stone engraved with a poem.

 

Grave of British Soldiers

"They came three thousand miles, and died,

To keep the Past upon its throne:

Unheard, beyond the ocean tide

Their English mother made her moan."

April 19, 1775

 

“That must be where Gareth laid the wreath Patriots Day,” Daphne said. “It seemed strange to him. He didn’t want to do it, but he was told that the CG does it every year.”

The two women stood in the middle of the slightly curved North Bridge. The Concord River meandered below. The fields around them were so peaceful. Despite the heat and humidity earlier in the week, there had been enough rain to keep the grass green. Daphne shuddered, thinking of the contrast of the bloodshed that had started a war.

“What would the world be like if the colonies hadn’t rebelled? Hadn’t won the Revolution?” Florence asked.

“I suspect my country would be far more powerful. I read a book once, I forget the title, about America if the South had won the Civil War. It was fascinating.”

They strolled a grassy knoll to the visitor’s center. A man in a ranger uniform stood behind a counter. “We’ve an appointment with Tom Atkins,” Daphne said.

“I’ll get him.”

Tom Atkins bounded into the room. He had the type of face that looked as if he were smiling even when he wasn’t. His blond hair was shaved close to his head, minimizing his receding hairline. For three hours, he provided them with information about people, events, stone walls, crops, education and clothing.

*****

Daphne and Florence found a bakery/café near Lexington center which qualified for a postcard of a New England village. Florence chose tea to go with her red velvet cupcake; Daphne ordered coffee to accompany her apple pie. They found a table near the back of the room. “I’m the one who should have the coffee as a French woman, and you as a Brit should be drinking tea.”

“Think of me as a Scot. You know what I’m thinking?”

“You would rather have a scone than that cupcake?”

“No, this is about our first comic.”

Florence leaned forward. “Go ahead.”

“We both like having twins, a boy and girl, maybe 12 years old, to cover pre and early teens. The comic book will take the day before the battle, the day of the battle, the day after the battle. Do you like the names Abigail and Adam? We can . . .”

“… use much of the information from Ranger Tom.” Florence took a paper napkin and pulled a pencil from her purse. She drew two faces. Voilà, meet Adam and Abigail.”

“We’ve wasted enough time. Now we really need to get to work.”

The two women high-fived.

Would Gareth notice the history books they’d collected in the park gift shop, she wondered. What would he say? Should she tell him what they planned? Marriage should not be like this.

Check out D-L's website https://dlnelsonwriter.com

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 24-25

 

Chapter 24

Boston, Massachusetts

May

 

 DAPHNE ANDREWS SAT on her apartment building stairs and spied what might be Florence DuBois’ car doubled park. She rushed out between the black Audi and red Toyota to jump in after checking to make sure the license plate was diplomatic. It read “Hon Consular Corps 008.” Florence was behind the wheel.

The checking was a caution she took from five years ago in Edinburgh when she’d had a date with Alex. He drove a blue Renault. When a blue Renault stopped, she got in.

Alex was blond with straight hair: that driver had brown curls. “You’re not Alex,” she’d said.

“I could be,” he’d said. He pulled over on the other side of the traffic light. “I suppose you want to wait for Alex.” She’d found him good looking, but he’d worn a wedding ring.

As she fastened her seatbelt, she wondered if Florence would appreciate the story.

She did.

Despite Gareth’s warning to be careful what they talked about, Daphne hoped Florence would become a friend. Friends didn’t need to discuss consular business, but they could share other things, normal women things.

Gareth had left for work before 6:30, leaving Daphne cuddled in bed with her book, a cup of tea and wondering how to spend her day. If she didn’t miss company politics, she missed goals — she missed working. However, not having the morning rush to get to work was a pleasure.

The French Consul General’s wife had called at 8:30. “I know we planned to go out next Wednesday, but my two meetings today cancelled and rather than wait until next week, I thought I would take a chance you would be free. I hope this is not too early.” Florence took a deep breath. “Would you like to go to breakfast, then sightseeing with me?”

“How soon?” Daphne asked.

“Half an hour?”

A quick shower, her short brown hair blown dry, her legs shoved into jeans, a t-shirt and trainers or sneakers as they were called in the U.S., and Daphne was out the door.

The day promised to be one of those magic weather days with temperatures neither too high nor too low. The sky was an unreal blue.

“So glad you could come,” Florence said. “I almost didn’t call when my engagement was cancelled. You do realize spur of the moment plans are not usual with consulate duties.”

So far Daphne’s “duties” had been one tea party and a meeting with the CEO of some local tech company who was thinking of setting up a 50-person office in Milton Keynes. The man’s wife planned to go, so Gareth wanted Daphne along.

“Have you had many postings?”

“We’ve been in South Africa and Brazil with Paris home breaks.”

A horn blared behind the car. If Florence’s car had one more coat of paint, she would have scraped it on the parked car she was passing. Daphne, who had been holding her breath at the close encounter, exhaled. “How do you feel about all those moves?”

“Good and bad. Fun discovering new places. Bad if I wanted a stable career path in some company. Hard sometimes on the kids. We ended up putting them in boarding school in Switzerland a couple of years ago.”

“How old?”

“Fifteen and 17. They are my stepchildren. Yves is older. He was a widower when I met him. The kids were part of the package.”

Daphne glanced at Florence, trying to guess her age. She was dressed in dark brown slacks and a beige t-shirt. A neck scarf with different brown swirls was twisted in a way that left Daphne wondering how she had done it. She assumed it was just part of being French.

They headed north onto the Zakim Bridge. Florence continued in the far-left lane until they came to the Malden exit where she crossed at what Daphne could only describe as a right angle. If she’d been Catholic, she’d have crossed herself.

“Where are we going?”

“First to breakfast in a time machine, then did you ever read Little Women?”

“I loved it. I cried when Beth died.”

“I thought we’d go to Louisa May Alcott’s home. Steep ourselves in New England atmosphere.” Daphne decided Florence had a take-charge personality, which in this case didn’t bother her. The French woman knew about the area and was willing to share.

Florence missed a turn, slammed on the brakes and went into reverse. At this point they were in a neighborhood of two-family wooden houses. To the left was a shopping mall with a Target and Dunkin’ Donuts.

Florence parked as far away from the stores and as close to the road as possible.

She led Daphne past a florist, a dry cleaner and a newsstand to a small brick building proclaiming Dempsey’s “Breakfast and Lunch” and into a time warp with booths, red tables, chairs, a glass case filled with muffins and bagels. Behind the counter a man was frying eggs and making pancakes on different parts of the grill. The smell of coffee was welcoming.

“Florence!” A woman behind the counter rushed out and hugged Florence, who hugged back, no French two-cheek kisses.

“When I went to Mass College of Art, I lived near here. It wasn’t convenient, but my father thought I would be safer in the suburbs than the inner city. This was my hangout. She turned to the woman. How long has it been?”

“Two? Three years, I think. At least.”

Holding the woman’s hand, Florence said, “I wanted to let my friend Daphne know about you. She’s from Scotland.”

Florence insisted on the waffles. The waffles were as good as Daphne had ever eaten, thick and crispy.

Daphne held her rapidly cooling coffee cup in both hands. “May I ask you some questions?” She didn’t want to be rude, but she was curious.

Florence nodded.

“You went to school in Boston? Art school? Why, if you’re French? They’ve art schools in France.”

“Half. My mother’s American. From Wakefield, just northish of here. Spent lots of summers around Boston with relatives. Fell in love with New England. My father is French. Like my husband, he was in the diplomatic corps. I like to blame my childhood moves on the fact that I can’t settle. Can we get another coffee, please?”

The waitress heard and filled their cups. Daphne thanked her. “I did notice your French accent in English varies.”

Florence laughed. “Doesn’t it though? I can do other accents too. Depends on whom I’m talking to. Bad habit. Some people think I’m mocking them. Yves signals me when I do. My French accent is perfect Parisian when I want. Unless I want to give it an English twist. It is ever so much fun. Yours is understandable Scot.” When Florence said this, she sounded like she lived on Lothian Road in Edinburgh all her life.

Daphne was startled for a moment, then laughed. “Not bad. You sound like we should wander down to Princes Street for tea and scones.”

“Art and accents, my two best talents.” As they finished their second cup of coffee, she said, “I had an ulterior motive for asking you out.”

Daphne took a sip of her renewed coffee. It almost burned her mouth. Florence was becoming more interesting by the minute. More interesting than her own life. She’d lived in her parents’ house from the time they’d brought her home from the hospital until uni.

“My husband is a widower, and he worked with my father. He’s in between my father and me in age. We met, fell in love. He’d been a single parent for five years. The kids are mainly good kids. We all had a bit of adjustment to me as stepmother. Enough about me, tell me more about you.” Florence ate the last bite of her waffle.

For a second Daphne heard Gareth warning her to be careful. What she did say was how she’d been fascinated with history since she was a little girl. She’d had a Greek period when she pretended her dolls were different gods and goddesses. “And I had a medieval period. I didn’t want to know just about kings and queens. I wanted to know what people ate, wore, played. One afternoon I dug up our back garden in case some artifacts were buried.”

“Your parents must have loved that.” Florence ate her last bite of waffle.

“I think they went from being pleased that I wasn’t a wild child to more of a good-lord-what-are-we-going-to-do-with-her.”

Florence laughed. “What about boys?”

“I attracted nerds mostly. In uni I semi-blossomed from a wallflower. At one point, I wanted to change my image. I had a makeover. Would you believe it?”

“Tell me more.”

“There was a store in Edinburgh that redid hair, makeup and wardrobe.”

“So, you went from ugly duckling to swan?”

“More like a crow to a parakeet. Something with a little color. I was asked out a little more and would date a man for a few months. Mostly I’d break it off because they weren’t that interesting. Sports, sports, sports, making money, going to the pub and getting pissed.”

“And Gareth?”

Danger, danger, maybe. “We ran into each other. Literally. I came out of a bookstore after buying a book on weaving looms. He was watching a bagpipe player. I wasn’t look where I was going. He wasn’t looking where he was going. He helped pick up my things, offered to buy me a coffee or tea.” There, nothing compromising.

“Love at first sight?” Florence went to drink her coffee and realized it was empty.

“Like at first sight. We did a lot of commuting between London and Edinburgh. Then when he was about to get an overseas assignment, he asked me to marry him.”

Florence started rummaging in her backpack. She brought out a hardback comic book. “You read French?”

“Better than I speak it.”

Florence flipped through the pages of drawings about the Marquis. The detail of the underground fighting the Nazis was intricate. She couldn’t judge the writing quality. “Fascinating.”

“In France, bande dessines are popular. I’ve a proposition for you.”

Daphne was curious. She could imagine Gareth saying, “Stop.”

“How would you feel about working on a bande dessine together. You would do the historical research and I’d do the drawings.”

It sounded like fun. “What subject?”

“We could decide together. Maybe something about the American Revolution. At the moment, I’ve no idea about the story.”

“You don’t have to decide now. Let’s pay and head out to meet Louisa May Alcott.”

Suspecting she would regret it, Daphne said, “It is a great idea. I’m in.” She paused. “At least to investigate more.”

 

Chapter 25

Castle William Island, Boston

July1774

 

 THE TWO SPEAKERS, a major and a captain, had come from headquarters to Castle William Island. The Island, visible from Boston, was named for King William III. James didn’t know much about King William, but he was impressed that the island had 100 cannons to defend the colony if necessary.

The regiment slept in a stone fort for the first two weeks as they waited for transfer to Boston proper. After the cramped quarters on the boat, it was luxurious.

As long as he was on land, James Holloway didn’t care if he were in the city or on the island. He was curious what was going to happen next. He hoped that the speakers were there to talk about the local situation.

They were. They were dressed in pristine regimental uniforms and wore white powdered wigs but were without the big fur hats. Instead, they wore a tricorne with one corner leaning over their left eye.

The soldiers from the ship sat on benches in a great hall packed with red-clothed bodies. They had been ordered to wear their good uniforms. The last few hours had been spent brushing and pressing them into shape. Their boots were shined to mirror finish.

James and his friend Thomas Miller found seats in the first row.

Sweat ran down James’ face. If things were this hot in July, what would August be like? He didn’t want to use his coat sleeve to dry his face, but he had no cloth in his pocket. He let it run. It tickled.

James figured what the speakers had to say was important because of their ranks. No lowly serjeant or lieutenant was trusted to impart mission information.

The major began. “You’ll be called lobsterbacks by locals. It is not a term of endearment.” As he talked, he paced. He slapped a baton into his hand, making a steady beat against his words. The captain sat on a wooden chair behind the major, saying nothing, but nodding from time to time.

James found it hard to believe when the major said, “You’ll be shocked at how many people want to separate from England. You’ll pass them on the street, buy their news sheets, eat the fish that they catch.”

James frowned.

“What’s the matter?” the major stopped pacing and talking at the same time and stared at James.

What made the major challenge him?

“I guess nothing, Sir. I just thought everyone loved our King. Loved England.”

“Some do. The problem is it is impossible to know who does and who doesn’t. Who is plotting against us. Which means you can’t trust anyone.” Then he resumed pacing. “Don’t get drunk and let down your guard.”

“Do you have any names we should be looking out for?” The voice came from the back of the room. James couldn’t see who was talking.

“Look out for people like Samuel Adams; he’s a real troublemaker. Dr. Benjamin Church. And there’s the editor of the Boston Gazette, Benjamin Edes. John Hancock is another troublemaker. He appears to be a merchant and a fire warden, but he is a pirate too, although we’ve never been able to prove it.

The captain mumbled something and the major nodded. “There’s an excellent silversmith by the name of Paul Revere. He writes too many articles. And James Swan. He’s a financier.

Before he finished, he had listed over 50 people.

“Mostly they call themselves The Sons of Liberty. Stupid name. That’s not for Massachusetts only. The group exists in the other colonies. We have all their names at headquarters. If you can read, I want you to carry their names with you. If you meet them, we don’t expect you to do anything. Just be aware and report any illegal activity.”

James wondered if and how he would meet any of them.

“If you find any information about plans, meetings of the so-called patriots, come to me. If I’m not available, go to Captain Turner. Do it immediately. Timing is important. Each and every one of you can be a spy. Tell them about the tea, Captain.”

I already know about it, James thought.

The captain walked to the front of the stage. “Those bastards have imagination. They dressed as Indians and threw a boatload of tea into the harbor because they didn’t like the tax. Real Indians haven’t been troublesome for years.”

“Big teapot,” Thomas said.

The major stomped to where Thomas sat. “What was that?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“I hope not.”

“Your name?”

“Thomas Miller, Private.”

“And you are with …?”

“The 43^rd, Sir.”

“Not a joking matter. Your life and all our lives depend on bringing these traitors under control.”

The information session went on and on and on before they were dismissed to sail the short distance to Boston proper. Considering that there were nearly 400 of them being transported from Castle William Island to Boston Common where they would be bivouacked, it took the rest of the morning.

Once they docked, two serjeants lined them up in rows of four where they stood in the heat. The sea air smell mixed with that of fish, some of which had been left too long in the broiling sun. Horses hitched to carts left their droppings contributing to the smell. The shuffling of feet combined with normal dock sounds of crates being loaded or unloaded and voices calling out created a cacophony.

“One hundred rows of soldiers marching through their streets should intimidate them,” Thomas whispered. Of course, they would be intimidating as the troops marched down Treamount* Street to the beat of Danny’s drum, James thought.

Their uniforms were pristine. Their boots, rifles and sabers shone. They marched in lockstep. Their footsteps to Danny’s drumming echoed against the buildings on both sides of the road.

They passed brick building after brick building. During the briefing, the major had explained that Boston was nearly destroyed by fire a while back and it was now forbidden to build a wooden building. “Too bad,” he said. “It would be easier to burn them out in case of an insurrection.”

Although he was supposed to keep his eyes straight ahead, James couldn’t help peeking at homes and shops. Bostonians, men, women, children, pressed themselves against the buildings allowing the soldiers to pass. The major had said about 15,000 people lived in Boston. “It’s all kinds including blacks and Indians.” James had heard about Indians. He’d seen drawings. Would Indians be running around Boston streets in loin cloths and feathers? If they were dressed like the regular population, how would he be able to identify an Indian from an Englishman. They called them redskins. How red, if red was the real color of their

 

*Treamount: Tremont Street in today’s Boston.

skin? He’d seen one black man in Winchester, who was really brown not black. Yet, ‘white’ men were pinkish to tan.

A boy, probably no more than seven or eight judging by his size or lack thereof, tried to march in step with the soldiers, until his mother grabbed him by the collar.

The troops came to a huge green field. On one end were rows and rows of tents that would hold two or three soldiers each. Like the troops, they were in perfect formation with even rows on each side of a dirt path that released dust onto perfectly shined boots.

Three tents were at the front of the first road and at right angles to the others. A corporal emerged.

Other soldiers, earlier arrivals, occupied many of the tents. The new arrivals broke into rows of two. As they came to an unoccupied tent, they peeled off, going inside to wait.

James and Thomas entered a tent to see a corporal sitting on one of the three cots. The soldier stood, “I’m Corporal John Tilley here to welcome you. And your names?”

“Thomas Miller, James Holloway,” James said.

“You’ll see a lot of me. I’m off to meet more of you new arrivals.”

The dirt floor was hard packed. Three cots and three empty chests were arranged against the three sides where there were no openings. They dropped their things on the beds. The third bed had a rifle on top of a blanket. The chest was open with clothes neatly folded.

“We’re home,” Thomas said.

“My tent mates.” Another private stood at the door.  He was the same height as James with red hair and a flushed face. “Just went out for a piss. Moses Fletcher. I’ve transferred into the 43^rd.”

James tried to take it all in wondering how much more his life could possibly change.