Teaching Love of Reading

Reading lets kids and adults live lives they might not live otherwise, to go places without leaving home. Ideas are only limited by the books chosen.

Recently students complained to a teacher that they had to read four books a year. The teacher had gone to Boston Latin School with my daughter. During each summer break they were given a list of books, told to select ten to read during the summer. They were quizzed in September.

That teacher was not sympathetic to her students.

I find I'm better friends with readers. We have so much more to talk about. Especially living in a non-Anglo environment sharing books is as natural as breathing. A good, good friend told me how she was disappointed that she hadn't learned to read the first day of first grade. She is a life-long reader and we share books where our tastes overlap.

I was read to as a child including novels. I still hold the Bobbseys, Old Grandfather Frog, Sammy Blue Jay and Reddy Fox as real friends in my heart.

Even when we had the first TV in town, everyone in my family still read. A book did not replace I Love Lucy, Uncle Miltie, Big Brother Bob Emery, Howdy Doody or vice versa. All had their place.

I read to my daughter. She doesn't remember all the Golden Books I read to her when I was barely able to stay awake myself. I've threatened, even though she is in her 50s, to buy copies of those books, and read them to her on her next visit. 

She does remember Green Eggs and Ham. My attempt to make green eggs did not change her opinion that eggs were to be read about not eaten.

When the book Green Eggs and Ham was left at my father's. She was upset. It took a couple of days for the book to arrive by mail. I realized that I had read it so many times that I could recite it by heart, but I could not recreate the pictures. 

Although I never tried it, I suspected I could have left my child in a bookstore in the morning with a sandwich and thermos and pick her up after work and she might not have noticed I'd left. I could have saved a fortune in childcare.

After my divorce and living with a couple, Friday nights were family nights. We went to Harvard Square, ate at a restaurant, listened to the street musicians and bought whatever we would read during the week.

Books were part of my formal education/informal too. In fourth grade, when we finished our work early, we could read one of the short biographies of famous people. It was because of them I developed my love of history including Eleanor of Aquitaine.

I didn't necessarily love some of the classics. It was much better to walk through the House of Seven Gables than to read it. However, Grapes of Wrath converted me into a reading addict. I will never finish Ulysses including the Cliff Notes. At my age I feel free to admit, I don't like the book. 

A wonderful gift from a friend. A book vase.

I think to teach love of reading, it is also necessary to admit a certain dislike for a book. In disliking a book, it is good for a kid to know why they dislike it: 

• Too much description
• Not enough action
• Unbelievable and/or unlikeable characters
• Confusing
• Boring etc.

They should also know why they like it.

INTERNAL vs. EXTERNAL

Yes, videos, television, movies, etc. can capture an imagination. It is external absorption. The story, facts, description are all provided for you. 

A book is internal. When we read, we absorb the words and take them into our brains. We activate our creativity by changing the words into images. 

I loved Parker's Spenser novels. I pictured Spenser as a wrestler/ boxer, broken face and burly with much muscle. In the TV series, which I also love (and watch when I want to visit Boston from the comfort of my French or Swiss homes), drop dead handsome Robert Urich was Spenser. Avery Brooks, the actor playing Hawk was just as I had imagined him down to the sneer.

How can a teacher or a parent invite a child into the world of books and make them love visiting?

• Role modeling
• Reading to them with books they'll love combined with bedtime cuddles when they are little.
• Make it a game.
• When possible visit what they read about. If they love dinosaurs visit a museum with a dinosaur skeleton.
• Let them select the books.
• Bribery with a favorite dessert, game, visit to wherever they want to go. (Don't say bribery is bad. We are bribed to work with the reward of a salary).

For teachers: what about having the class write a book or short stories as a group and make sure each kids has a copy, in paper or print. If a kid in class is artistic they could do the cover. If they realized what went into a book, they might look for these things in what they read.

For parents: make sure that the books you buy match the child's history. A biography of a loved football player, music star, pilot, etc.  Also encourage a trip to the library, especially if they have a children's reading program.

Books open the world. Kids need to peek into that world. So do adults.

 

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch.18-19

Chapter 18

Argelès-Sur-Mer, France

March

 

 

I’VE MADE A decision on years that I will cover. James will have joined the Army in 1773 and will sail for the new world in June 1774 after the Boston Tea Party and as rebel activity is heating up. This gives him time to be well-trained and I can show accurate training methods.

I’ve plenty of time to work. We are caught in the French pandemic shutdown, which eliminates our social life. We need an attestation each time we go out and are limited to one kilometer and one hour. We check why we are out such as doctors or buying groceries.

We do chat with neighbors who “borrow” our dog Sherlock for walks, which is one of the allowed activities.

At the same time, we have wifi problems. Our village is waiting for fiber. We can only have one internet connection at a time. When my husband needs it for his writing and research, I need to shut everything down and vice versa.

I use my downtime to read the books I’ve received and have downloaded information when it is my turn online.

James’ character is developing as I type. He will certainly not become a dedicated soldier between the time he joined and the time he goes to Boston. For the plot he needs to question just about everything he comes across, not a good trait for someone in the army where unquestioned obedience is required. Once in Boston, he will have more doubts.

At no time will James wish he were back in Ely. Instead, he will think of what he will do after his three-year contract is up.

I need to find ways to involve him in the events of the time, and more importantly, I need to make sure I write about the significant ones that lead up to the April 18^th battle. I keep reading and researching, R&R, not rest and recreation.

Many soldiers didn’t have limited contracts and only left the army when they could no longer serve for medical or age reasons. There were also term contracts and that was what James chose when he was recruited, but I came across the information after I wrote the recruitment scene. I need to insert the different types of contracts into the story, which I think is preferable to rewriting the chapter where he was recruited.

Accuracy versus keeping tension in the story can be a problem. So far.

I need a scene? chapter? where they learn they’ll sail for Boston, but I’m not sure when to put that in the novel. I’m delaying writing it. I am trying to find the name of the ship the 43rd regiment of Foot sailed on but no luck despite contacting several historians. I have found a lot of information on the type of ship that they would have been on, the time it took for the voyage.

The research on the type of ship has gone well, thanks to YouTube documentaries. If I can’t find the name of the ship I have two choices.

·        Make up a name

·        Not mention the name and write around it.

A problem I have with YouTube is when I play one video there are several others on the side screen that would be interesting. Many have to do with my research, but others have no relationship. Sometimes, I lack the willpower to not watch them.

I’ve had more luck dealing with educational issues. James is an educated misfit wherever he goes. But he’s a personable misfit, intelligent and curious. If he had run the family bakery, he might never have joined up: I would have had to find a new character.

He was educated in Ely schools where he was an excellent student. In America and England of the time there were schools, including for the poor. Schools in Massachusetts were often called Blue Coat schools because the students wore blue coats to class.

I also learned about the Boston educational system of its time. In 1635 Boston Latin was founded to educate men, but I knew that. My daughter graduated from BLS in 1967. Harvard was founded for the graduates to study for the ministry, law, etc. Many of America’s founding fathers attended BLS.

For those that were not interested or didn’t have the ability for a classical education, there were writing schools, one of which would become important both to General Gage and thus to the plot. These schools were to teach those that would become clerks, store owners, assistants to lawyers, etc.

Overall, the Bostonians were educated.

I need to decide what to call the different factions: loyalists, patriots, rebels, Tories, Whigs, colonists. Does the term patriot means patriotic to the King or patriotic to the colonists who are unhappy with the King?

As I come across and delve into different topics, I get ideas on how I want them to work in the story, but it might be much later in the story. I need to make notes and I put notes at the bottom of the manuscript and mark it in red. If I learn something that should be added to what I’ve already written, then I go back and add it making sure I have it in the acknowledgements.

Unlike writing pure fiction, I can’t manipulate events that really happened, although sometimes I wish I could. 

Chapter 19

Winchester, England

April 1774

 

 JAMES HOLLOWAY WAS amazed when Anderson released them earlier than usual. By looking at the sun, he gathered he had at least an hour before it was time to eat.

He found it hard to believe that he’d been a soldier for almost a year. A small company of men passed by James and stood in front of the main center. A larger company followed. It had men in rows of four. The front row would pretend to shoot the Brown Bess. Then they would disappear to the back to fake reload as the next row did the same and went to the back. James had also spent hours and hours in the same drill.

If he were ever in a battle, he suspected the second row would be stepping over the bodies of the first, a rather unpleasant thought even more so if he were the one being stepped over. When he joined, he hadn’t thought about getting shot. He’d better make sure that he was a good shot so he could kill before being killed. The thought unnerved him.

Four times over the year they had shot real cartridges. What had surprised James was how hot his Brown Bess became. The soldiers joked they were in more danger from burns than bullets.

Twice they practiced in small groups of four spread out over the alleged battlefield. Another regiment pretended to be the enemy. Then they switched roles.

When they weren’t in drills, they kept the base spotless, fixed things that needed to be fixed, painted and cleaned … always there was cleaning.

Rumors abounded that his regiment would be sent in its entirety to Boston, but there were always rumors just about everything: meat alleged to be rotten, a serjeant found drunk, but instead of punishment, there was a cover-up.

James only half believed what he heard about the 43^rd being shipped out.

He’d never see the ocean. In Ely there was an old man who had been a sailor. He talked of storms with waves as high as the cathedral and his ship being thrown around. He spoke of whales, fish almost as big as the ship itself. James had loved listening to his stories — but living them, that was different.

He didn’t know much about the colonies. There were stories about how the colonists were fighting against paying taxes. Hell, everyone paid taxes.

One of the new stories was how colonists dressed as Indians and threw an entire shipment of tea into Boston Harbor rather than pay tax. Bloody waste of good tea if anyone asked him, but of course, no one did.

Not for the first time did he hope he wouldn’t see battle.

In his mind he heard William chiding, “So why in bloody name did you join up?”

He shuddered. He hadn’t liked killing rabbits, but he liked eating them even with a smidgen of guilt and a lot of enjoyment at the same time.

God, life could be confusing.

Some days he wondered what the hell had he been thinking? Getting away. Changing his life. Never making another loaf of bread. How naïve. How stupid.

He supposed he could run away. But where could he go?

If he went home, a soldier might come through, a villager might mention him to that soldier who would report it to his superiors. He’d be returned and punished. The army did not take desertion lightly.

On other days he enjoyed the routine. He liked it especially when he learned something new. There was a manual that the soldiers followed. The lessons were read to the men by a corporal. It was detailed, even to the placement of their fingers on the gun in different positions. He wondered who had written it. One man? A group? Officers?

At one point he’d asked the corporal who’d answered, “How the hell should I know?” and walked off shaking his head.

It’s only for three years, with one gone already, he told himself when doubts seeped into his brain. The recruiter had given him a choice back in Ely: three, five years or indefinite. Despite the recruiter encouraging him for the indefinite contract, James had asked if he chose the three years, could he extend at the end. The answer was of course.

Thus, he had chosen the shortest term.

He thought as he walked, I changed my life and that’s a good thing.

What caught his eye was one of the new company drummers, a boy no more than 15. He sat on a bench outside the barracks, polishing his drum, although it already shone. The drum was green and red with paintings of soldiers in the 43^rd regiment uniform.

He set down next to where the boy was working. “Hello Danny. Your drum is looking really shiny.” James knew the beat told the soldiers to march faster, slower, turn left, turn right, stop. Some commanders used hand signals, others rode or marched back to give the drummer orders. Some sent a messenger.

When he discovered something new, such as the reason and importance of the drumbeat, it created a moment of happiness that he had joined up. In Ely, he wondered, learning something new was usually some kind of gossip, who was sleeping with whom, who got drunk and fell in the river, etc.

“Where you from, Danny?”

“Right here in Winchester. My family blows glass, but I didn’t want to do that. Anyway, my four brothers are carrying on the family trade. Since I’m the baby, I had choices they didn’t.”

James was surprised at how much information Danny shared. He liked getting to know someone new.

The bugle for dinner sounded. “Coming to eat, Danny?”

“Nah, I’m heading home. My Mum’s cooking, beats what you’ll eat.”

*****

A week later on Saturday, the recruits were issued a six-hour pass to go into Winchester with orders to be back by midnight. “Don’t cause trouble. You get in trouble with the locals, it’s nothing like the trouble you’ll be in with me,” Anderson said. He said that every time.

James found Winchester a bit like Ely. He’d been told there were about 4,000 citizens but what surprised him was that many of the streets were paved.

A river, the Itchen, not much wider than the Ouse in Ely, ran down one section. Houses were on both sides of the bank. A few held businesses on the ground level, including a bakery, which was closed every time he walked by late in the day.

As it grew dark, a man walked down the street, sidestepping over the horse manure. He carried a torch on a pole to light the hanging oil lamps. James had not seen these before he had joined up. Every new thing made him smile to himself.

His fellow soldiers, including Thomas Miller, went to find beer, good or otherwise.

“I want to just walk around,” James said. “I may catch up with you later.” In reality, James was finding it difficult to be with people all day every day, even though he loved talking to people. Sometimes he thought it was like filling a bucket with water. When the bucket was full, it was full.

In Ely, after he’d sold his bread, after he’d talked about anything and everything with each of his clients, he relished the chance to sit down by the river by himself and just think. Now, almost every minute of his day was occupied.

At the base:

He dressed with others.

He cleaned the barracks with others.

He ate with others.

He marched with others.

He practiced loading his gun with others.

He went to bed when the others went to bed.

And always, always there was Anderson or Carver barking at them to do it better and faster. William and Anderson would get along well. Anderson considered each failure of a recruit the recruit’s fault, but with more drill on his part it would disappear. William had made it clear that every “failure” on James’s part was a deep character flaw, which could never really be corrected.

Doing nothing except what he wanted to do, even for an hour, was a gift. And doing nothing was doing something.

The spring air was gentle and dry with a light smell of horse manure drifting from where the horses had deposited it as they pulled carts through the streets. In the beginning of the week, they had two days of downpour. The puddles had dried.

Few people were out. As he passed one house, a voice called out, “Hey James.”

He looked to the window where the voice came from.

Danny was hanging over the first floor window sill and waving frantically. “What are you doing here?”

“Just looking around.”

“Come in and meet my Mum and the rest of the family.”

Before he could say he didn’t want to disturb anyone, the door opened. A woman motioned him in. “I’m Danny’s mother. You’re another foundling.”

“That’s what Mum calls anyone we bring home,” Danny said.

Before James could refuse, he was seated at a table; bread and a sausage were put before him along with a mug of beer.

He tried to sort out Danny’s brother and sisters from their spouses and offsprings. Their names had come faster than Anderson’s orders. It was hard because they all seemed to have the same round face, brown hair and brown eyes.

He heard more laughter during the meal than his family would have exhibited in six months day and night.

He was fascinated that different people seemed to know whose turn it was to go behind the house and return shortly thereafter. First, he thought they needed to pee, but when Danny stood, he said, “My turn to add logs to the fire. I’ll show you, James, if you want to come with me.”

Outside James saw a hive-shaped kiln.

“This is where my family makes their blown-glass products. Come.”

Danny led James to the front of the house where a shop displayed their products. He talked in a non-stop stream. “Our family was renowned for their glasses, dishes, vases. We even have a commission from the King.” He took a breath. “My Mum is amazing. When my father died a decade ago, she took over, saw that our glass was even better. She always wants us to be the best we can be.”

Danny went on. “That’s how I want to be about my drumming. I’m so lucky that my family understood why I didn’t want to do what they were all doing and that it wasn’t against them but for me.”

I wish my brother had felt like that, James thought.

Back inside, James’ mother asked him about his life. Although he told them about his family, he didn’t mention Bess. He wasn’t sure why.

When every morsel of food had disappeared, James said, “I must get back to base.”

“You don’t want Anderson mad at you,” Danny said. “What a temper that man has.”

Halfway down the street, right before he had to cross a bridge, he heard footsteps. For a second, he was worried that someone might rob him, but it was Danny’s mother. She was a full head shorter than James with hair that escaped her cap. It remained black. He wondered how a woman who produced that many children wasn’t gray. Maybe the heat from the kiln?

For a moment, instead of feeling homesick, he felt angry that his own family couldn’t have been like this. Had his wife lived, could they have created a family along with running the bakery? Not as long as William existed.

He must stop comparing his old life with his new, he told himself. It was what it was.

“James! James, I have a favor to ask you?” Danny’s mother was out of breath.

“I knew I’d have to pay for the meal.” The twinkle in his eyes matched hers.

“If you go into war, try and keep Danny out of harm?”

“I don’t think we have any plans for war.”

“Men always find a reason to go to war.” 

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.”