Chapter
52
Brookline,
Massachusetts
November
“Far enough away
from any chance somebody will wander in when we entertain and there’s a WC just
at the bottom of the stairs.” Florence waved to the door.
Although it was a
cloudy day, the windows around the cupola let in enough light that even without
the spotlights that had been installed for Florence, she had the illumination
she needed to work either on the computer or on her drawing board.
“You like them?
They’re still preliminary.” Florence had created the drawings for the comic
book on computer but had printed off paper copies for Daphne and handed her a
pencil in case she wanted to make any changes or notes.
Daphne was sitting
at the drawing board. A table to the right had the same drawing on an enlarged
computer screen.
“You’ve translated
my story ideas … well, I’m not sure how to say it.”
“I like
brilliant.”
Abigail was shown
feeding the chickens and churning butter. Another panel showed her
eavesdropping on a meeting of the local Sons of Liberty, who were plotting on
how to get the cannons from the firebox at the writing school on Boston Common
out to the countryside.
The plan to move
them by cart hidden under hay or maybe even manure was shown in a bubble over
Abigail’s father head.
Abigail’s twin
brother Adam was allowed to be at the meeting. As a girl, she was not.
“Nothing like
making a feminist statement while we’re at it,” Florence said. She went to the
coffee machine to the right of the entrance and made two espressos. “Sugar?”
Daphne shook her
head. She was entranced by Abigail’s face. The girl was beautiful. She could
have walked off the paper and found a job modeling anywhere in the world.
What Daphne had
found particularly difficult to do was to create the condensed speech balloons,
but she and Florence had decided that they could write one or two sentences at
the bottom of each panel to increase the storyline. Words were economical but dense.
Gareth had noticed
that she was no longer going to the library as often. “Too cold,” Daphne had
said.
What she did the
moment he left was to work on the storyline. When the words wouldn’t come, she
would search the internet for images of furniture, house interiors and
exteriors, dishes and clothing she had not found in books. These she e-mailed
to Florence. Many of them were incorporated into the drawings.
As for the
exterior backgrounds, the two women had spent three days taking photos of the
area and houses.
“Your stone wall
is unbelievable.” Daphne saw how Abigail was walking on a path along the wall,
arguing with her father to be allowed to go to Boston with him and Adam to
retrieve the cannon from the schoolhouse. The balloon over her head said,
“They’ll never think a girl would hide a cannon.”
“There wasn’t a
girl in that wagon as far as we know.” Daphne was bothered that Florence had
changed her text where Abigail wanted to go with her father, and he said no.
“How historically
accurate do we have to be?” Florence asked.
“As close as
possible,” Daphne said.
“Think of the
movie Braveheart.”
“Do I have to? It
was historically incorrect.” The two women seldom disagreed. One would make a
suggestion. The other would add to it strengthening the final result.
“But it makes a
better a story,” Florence said.
Before Daphne
could say anything Florence made another stab. “You told me the stolen cannon
was moved in a wagon covered with manure. We have fictious characters
throughout the comic book. A kid reading the comic book won’t care if we don’t
have the real name of the wagon owner much less a passenger. The manure is
accurate.”
Before Daphne
could respond, Florence said, “The girls reading the comic book would find the
feisty Abigail much more appealing if she was more participatory.”
“But …”
“Women in those
days needed to be strong. I need to do more tweaking on the parts about the
battle itself. Maybe we should have her dress in Adam’s clothes.”
“Would she be able
to shoot a gun?” Florence asked.
“Probably. It’s
probably too late for danger from Indians, but since she’s living in the
country, we can have her hunt with her brother and father.”
Florence looked at
her watch. “I have this stupid luncheon with the accompanying wives in an hour.
Take the drawings home and get back on what you think?”
Daphne had been
planning to stay longer.
“I thought I had
escaped it, but at the last minute, but Charlotte twisted my arm.”
“You don’t need to
explain. We’re in the same situation.”
Florence’s phone
rang.
Daphne motioned
she could leave to give her friend privacy.
Instead, Florence
put it on speaker. “Hello, Jason.”
At first Daphne
thought he might be a boyfriend the way they phone flirted, then Jason said,
“How about lunch next Monday?” adding, “And bring your partner.”
Florence looked at
Daphne, who put her hands out as if to say, “I don’t understand.”
“Daphne’s here
with me, Jason. Daphne, you free next Monday?”
Daphne nodded.
“By the way,
Daphne meet Jason, Jason meet Daphne.”
“Hi, Daphne.”
“Hello, Jason.”
“Gotta run,
Sweetheart. See you and Daphne next Monday.”
“What was that
about?”
“Jason and I had a
lot of classes together when I took night classes. He’s a Commissioning Editor
at Grayson, Inc.”
“And that’s . . .”
“An educational
publisher. He wants to see what we’ve got done. I didn’t want to get your hopes
up until he agreed to look at our work.”
Chapter 53
Boston,
Massachusetts
January
1775
Where was
everyone? He hadn’t seen any marching troops outside, but almost 18 inches of
snow had fallen on the parade ground in the last 48 hours. Maybe there were
lectures and classes going on in the lecture rooms.
He wasn’t sure
what he should do or to whom he should report. After Dr. Church had left last
night, the General had told him to go back to his barracks the next morning. It
was time for him to catch up with his regular duties.
He was to report
back to the General after the weekend when the General and several top
commanders would meet to make plans on how to find missing weapons. They still
weren’t sure to where they had been whisked: Charlestown, Arlington, Concord,
Salem were all possibilities. “As much as I appreciate all that you do, James, a
time may come that I will need every soldier on the battlefield. If there’s a
God in heaven, I hope it never comes to that, but we must be ready.”
James found it
hard to imagine Englishmen fighting Englishmen. He’d seen how the locals, if
not born in England, first-, second-, third- or fourth-generation Englishmen,
taunted the soldiers, but that was minor compared to overall war. He had heard
about the damage a civil war could cause, although many of his fellow soldiers
hadn’t. He knew probably because Oliver Cromwell, who had overthrown King
Charles many years ago was from Ely. What bothered him was how any war could be
called civil.
He hadn’t expected
to fight when he joined the army. Maybe that was naïve, but many other soldiers
said the same thing. They joined to change their lives, as he had. He joined
for adventure, to forget the loss of his wife, to get away from his brother’s
domination and be his own person.
Being given a state-of-the-art
Brown Bess in comparison to the old weapon he used in Ely to shoot rabbits had
been a thrill. It wasn’t that he was a gun lover, but he appreciated its
slickness and efficiency.
The hours of
practicing loading, the thoroughness of their training down to where they
should put their fingers was fascinating. It was also a challenge to be the
best he could possibly be. Why, he wondered, did he not realize in his heart that
he might be called on to kill people, lots of people in the name of the King.
Dumb, dumb, dumb, he chided himself.
James put his
belongings in the footlocker at the end of his cot. As he turned the key, he
realized he wasn’t alone. He turned. Corporal Tilley stood in the doorway.
“You’re back. How
are you?” Tilley had lost weight and was pale as the snow that had fallen last
night. A dark beard made his skin look even whiter. He was not in uniform.
“Getting better.
And you?”
“Still not back on
duty, but I’m out of the infirmary. What a stink. Shit everywhere, vomit
everywhere. The doctor himself got sick. They brought in women to act as
nurses, but they couldn’t keep up with it all.”
“I’m sorry.” Had
James been more religious he’d have thanked God that his accommodations and
treatment were privileged. He might say so to God but never to Corporal Tilley.
“Where is
everyone?”
“Five men are
still in the infirmary. Six have died. The rest are getting lectures.”
“Who died?”
Tilley sat on
James’ cot and suggested with a hand movement that James sit next to him. When he
did, Tilley took a deep breath and rattled off five names.
James had liked
most of the men. It was sad he’d never see them again. Never share a bit of
polish for their boots. Never sit at the same table and complain about the
porridge. They would cover for each other when one was late getting back to the
barracks.
“You said six, but
you only mentioned five names.”
Tilley’s eyes
wandered around the room before looking straight into James’. “I’m sorry, the
sixth is, was, your friend Thomas Miller.”
*****
James sat on his cot and stared at his
hands. Corporal Tilley had left him alone saying he needn’t go to any morning
lecture. “This afternoon, after lunch, will be soon enough.”
James wasn’t sure
how to feel. Thomas couldn’t be dead. They had been friends since they were
both in diapers. They’d gone to school together, although Thomas had left two
years before James to work with his father.
If he hadn’t let
Isaac search for Thomas to bring him to the recruiter that day in Ely, his
friend might still be alive. Thomas might be married and have a son of his own.
Telling himself that did not help James feel better. Nor did the knowledge that
Thomas liked the Army better than he did and was more than happy with his
decision to join.
Tears built up
behind his eyes. He wouldn’t let them escape.
It wasn’t the army
that had killed his friend, it was the stupid sickness, James told himself.
That could have happened anywhere. Illnesses devastated Ely from time to time.
He could have tripped into the fire when preparing a horseshoe. A horse he was
shoeing could have kicked and killed him.
None of these
thoughts soothed James.
Loss: losing his
parents had produced grief, but it was the normal flow of life. It was
different with his wife and new baby. When he lost her, he felt as if someone
had beaten him inside and out. That losing Thomas hurt, but less than his wife,
didn’t help much.
People died all
the time — the young, the old because of illness, accidents and more rarely
murder. Grief followed. He didn’t want to get good at grief.
James knew he wasn’t
at full strength. Even the walk from the Governor’s mansion to the barracks had
left him with wobbly legs. He needed to get out of there but to where?
He put on an extra
shirt under his uniform. Only a few steps outside reminded him that his woolen
winter coat could not keep out the cold even with the collar pulled up. It came
to the middle of his head. He wore the tricorne hat not the bearskin: that
would have been warmer. Both would leave his ears vulnerable to the wind sweeping
in from the harbor.
The sky was almost
dark blue after the storm. Not even a cloud wisp was to be seen.
He shuffled
through the snow to the Common where tents had once created a cloth city
housing hundreds of troops in neat rows. Now it was a white flat field of
pristine snow. Not a footprint of man, bird or beast was visible. He decided to
use the street that surrounded the Common.
Even on the
sidewalk snow came to his knees, but it was soft and fluffy, not the wet kind
that was good for snowballs. He was grateful no kids were on the street to lob
them at his uniform.
Shop owners were
shoveling the sidewalks in front of their shops. As he passed a few of them
scowled at him. What did they expect? Him to shovel?
He wasn’t sure
where he was going. It didn’t really matter, because his destination would not
change anything. Thomas was dead.
He found himself outside the Boston Gazette. The area in front of the newspaper office had been shoveled. When he opened the door, a bell tinkled.
The office had no
counter. A printing press occupied one corner. Shelves held old copies of the newspapers
in neat stacks. An open round-top desk had notes shoved in holes at the back. Papers
were scattered in no particular order at the front. A pot with several quill
pens, bottles of black ink and an ebony-handled knife peeked from piles of
papers.
Two tables were to
the left of the press. Mollie Clark, wearing an ink-stained apron, sat at a
table in front of boxes of lead letters. She was arranging them in lines
creating a click every time she dropped one into its new place. The
click-click-click-click was constant.
She looked up. The
clicking stopped. “It’s you.”
He nodded.
She wiped her
hands on a cloth to the left of the tray of finished words leaving more black
marks from the residue of the ink on the metal letters. “I haven’t seen you for
a while. You’re buying our paper somewhere else?”
“I haven’t bought
it at all. I’ve been really sick.”
“I heard lots of
lobsterbacks had the bloody flux. At least you’ve kept it to yourselves.”
Her voice was
musical, her accent local. He knew her father, Benjamin Edes, was born in the
area. He was on the General’s troublemaker watch list.
One of James’
assignments had been to find out as much as he could about Edes. He had not progressed
very far before he’d been taken ill other than Edes was a third generation
local and had an ancestor that had something to do with Harvard’s founding or
maybe that was his wife’s family.
James couldn’t
very well tell the General the part of Edes family that really interested him
the most was the fair Mollie, a widow with no children. No spy was needed to
know where Edes’ sympathies lay. The newspaper’s contents made it obvious.
Unlike some of his
fellow soldiers, he never had gone to the brothel on Endicott Street just like
he didn’t patronize some of the tents that sold liquor outside the army’s tents
despite the officers’ objections.
It wasn’t morals
that kept James celibate and sober. He may have loved his beer and cider, but
as soon as he drank too much, he vomited. He hated vomiting. He hated hangovers.
As for sex, the memory of his love life with his wife warmed him and his hand
did the rest.
When he’d first
seen Mollie, he thought maybe someday he’d be ready for another woman in his
life. Although he was just beginning to imagine having another woman he cared
about, he promised himself to hold a part of his feelings back to never hurt as
much if he lost her.
Many of his fellow
soldiers, who saved their money to go to the brothel to “scratch my itch,” invited
him to join them. He always found a reason not to. If a soldier who wanted to
go was on guard duty, money changed hands and the soldier was off with a smile
and James’ stash grew.
If people, fellow
soldiers or locals, knew he had some hidden funds, he might be an object for
robbery. His pay didn’t go all that far after the army deducted for food,
clothing and other expenses.
He didn’t want to
reveal that he was saving for when his contract finished to set himself up. The
more he thought about it, the more he realized that Boston needed a good
bakery. Like all privates working for officers, there was monetary recompense.
His funds were growing.
“Do you like
bread, good bread?” What a stupid question he thought as soon as the words fell
from his mouth, but he had to keep her talking to him.
Mollie folded the
towel she had used to wipe her hands. “What?”
He repeated the
question.
“I eat a lot of it.”
“Do you make your
own?”
“I’m too busy. I usually
eat with my parents.”
He wondered where
she lived. “And is it good? The bread that is? Not living with your parents.”
“I don’t live with
them. I have the house my husband and I shared before he died.” She folded her
arms across her chest. “This is a strange conversation.”
I’m a strange
person, he thought but didn’t say it. His experiences growing up in Ely made
him feel like an outsider because he often thought differently from his family
and to a certain extent his friends. He had become good at pretending he
thought the same way they did. The only person he ever told of his real
feelings and ideas was his wife, and she just nodded never saying he was wrong.
Any hope he had had that he would feel he belonged in the army had crashed
during training.
“I was a baker
before I joined the army.”
He was beginning
to feel dizzy.
She nodded.
“Where’s your friend who comes in with you?”
James needed to
sit. His hands began to shake. “He died. Bloody flux.” The tears he’d been holding
back burst forth and he couldn’t stop.
Mollie immediately
locked the door and flipped the open sign to closed. She covered the windows
with curtains, hiding the newspaper office from passersby. She moved to his
side pulling the chair where she’d been sitting and forced him to sit.
He hated being so
weak in front of her.
She gathered him
into her arms. He could feel the softness of her breasts behind the roughness
of her apron.
Between thinking
of Thomas and the fool he was making of himself, he couldn’t stop sobbing no
matter how much he wanted to.
He heard her say,
“Take deep breaths.”
He did as he was
told. Slowly he raised his head and started to stand up. The room seemed to
move. He sat back down with a thump.
Mollie realized
what was happening. She shoved his head between his legs. “It’ll be all right.
Just take your time.”
She must think him
a total weakling, he worried. “I’m sorry. This is my first day out after being
sick and …”
“Too soon, I’d
say. And losing your friend on top of it. When did you find out?”
He lacked the
strength to argue.
“An hour ago. At
the most.”
“Can you sit here
if I leave you? You won’t fall off the chair or anything?”
He shook his head.
Mollie went behind
the curtain at the back of newspaper office. He heard her rustling around. She
came back with a mug. “Drink this.”
He did and almost
spit it out. “What is it?”
“Rum and apple
juice. Finish it. When you’re a little stronger, I’ll walk you back to the
barracks.”
Despite all his
protests, she wouldn’t let him go alone. Her alternative suggestion that she go
to the barracks and find someone to help him back was worse.
More of the
sidewalks had been shoveled since earlier but there were still places that they
needed to kick their way through white fluff. He noticed Mollie’s dress from
the hem to just below her knees was snow covered. It would be wet when she went
into the warmth.
At the barracks
door, she said, “I think you’ll be fine from here.”
Since he wasn’t
sure what to say, he said nothing.
“I need to get
back to setting my type. I don’t think I saw anyone I know. If word reaches my
father that I’m walking with the enemy, he’ll be furious.”
“Am I the enemy?”
“Maybe not you,
but what you represent is.”
He tried to thank
her, but she just waved her hand.
What would he say,
if we walked together and I wasn’t in uniform?”
She smiled. “I’ll
have to think about it.”
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