Lexington Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 32-33

 

Chapter 32

Boston, Massachusetts

November 1774

 

 

“ONE FINAL KISS, and then we’ll never meet again,” Bess Holloway said. She placed her lips gently on James’s lips, turned and disappeared into the mist.

James sat up on his cot. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he remembered: last month they had dismantled the tents on Boston Common to move the 43^rd Regiment of Foot into the newly renovated barracks. He, himself, had repaired the flooring and walls of this room where 30 other privates were snoring. A full moon shone through the one window opposite his bed giving a dim light.

The regiment had moved just in time. The night the last tent was packed away, Boston had had its first big snowstorm. Each room had a fireplace, but they did little to dispel the cold during the day much less at night when fires were banked. One soldier was assigned each night to make sure that the fire wasn’t extinguished.

“It would be worse if you were still outdoors, so quit bitching,” Corporal Tilley had told them when the mumbling became louder. Overall, the men liked Tilley. He was fair but demanding. “This is nothing compared when we were in Canada fighting the French.”

A soldier on his way to the pee pots in a room outside the door tripped, mumbled something and continued on his way.

James wondered if it was worth it to get out of his bed to piss and decided no.

Strange, he hadn’t dreamed about Bess for weeks. When she first died, he hated falling asleep. He would have nightly nightmares about her death. Then they had tapered off to maybe two or three a week until he joined the army.

He had not expected her to die in childbirth, or as in her case, a few days after when a fever attacked her. Not that death in childbirth was unusual. If women had enough children, one of their births would surely kill them. But Bess was just 18 and strong. She seldom even had a cold.

The baby hadn’t lived either. In the beginning he thought his first child would be his last. The pain was so great at losing Bess, he had no interest in women. Going through the misery twice was beyond his imagination, but now he wondered if maybe sometime in the future, if he could find the right woman, he might try again to create a family.

Bess and he had been friends as teenagers. They were friends after they became lovers. She was his protector, his sounding board. She was quick to jump in the river on a hot day, fully clothed, teasing him to join her. They would walk hand in hand in the moonlight on a summer night and sometimes make love when they were far enough from the village not to be caught.

He thought of her last words to him, barely audible. “Miss me but be happy. Live the life I won’t have.” She hadn’t said anything about finding another wife, but she hadn’t said anything against it. Was having a woman in his life part of being happy? He supposed it depended on the woman. Trying to find a wife like Bess, well that would be difficult.

It might not be terrible to have a female friend. He had always enjoyed the company of women, unlike many of his friends who felt women were good for keeping house and meeting their needs in bed or a haystack and not much more.

It might be because he and his sisters had always gotten along with few sibling spats. James would be the first to admit his sisters spoiled him. Because they were so much older, they treated him as their pet. When they’d married and moved, he missed the sweets they would sneak him and definitely missed their protection from William.

Bess and he had been in school together. She played with boys more than girls and could roll a hoop better than anyone else.

She was fun to talk to, never resorting to silly giggles. Their marriage was taken for granted by both sets of parents.

If she hadn’t died, he probably would still be putting faggots in the bread-baking oven. Their son might have a baby brother or sister.

This was his first Bess dream since they had arrived from England and in it he felt she was saying goodbye. His old life was fading.

His current life didn’t seem real and he had no idea what his future would hold in two, three, five years. He did know it wouldn’t be the army, although he had few regrets about being a soldier. For now.

James changed from his right to his left side, pulling the covers to his neck. Sally Brewster stomped into his mind.

She was the daughter of the leather bucket maker. He had first seen her in early October taking in the fire buckets on display outside her father’s shop at the closing of the business day. She’d been talking with a woman, whom James later learned was a neighbor.

He had been on an errand for Mrs. Gage. “Pick up a package for me,” she’d said and handed him an address. The address was a dressmaker.

Mrs. Gage could afford a dressmaker, but many of the locals were suffering under the new economic conditions instituted by the government, an ongoing punishment. New clothes were not affordable. The army never seemed to be deprived of anything unlike the locals who couldn’t requisition whatever they wanted.

James considered this unfair. He kept his opinions to himself. He didn’t hear any other soldier admitting being an oppressor. Whether, like him, they remained silent, he had no way of knowing.

James was amazed at how he felt drawn to Sally. It wasn’t that she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen, although she was pretty with blond curls escaping her cap. Her face was a little on the round side. What drew him were her blue eyes, not so much the color but the way they seemed to hide secrets. He told himself that it was his imagination, but he found himself going by her father’s shop every chance he could.

There were two bucket makers in Boston. Most families kept a bucket by their door in case of fire in their house or others. The men of the household could grab it when an alarm sounded and rush to help extinguish the blaze before it spread. The buckets came in a variety of shapes, some more cylindrical than others. Some were narrow. James thought they couldn’t hold much water.

Brewster’s buckets, unlike those of his competitor William Turner, were decorated, mostly by Sally. Some were simple geometric designs. Some had names of the buyer-to-be or the name Brewster. A few were rural scenes or paintings of local buildings like Faneuil Hall. Others had scenes of the buckets being used to put out a house fire.

Three days ago as he stood looking at them, a voice said, “Probably the buckets are a signal to the Sons of Liberty that there’s a meeting.” He turned to see Corporal Tilley.

“We’re sure the father was involved in throwing the tea in the harbor both times, but we can’t prove it.”

James shrugged as Sally Brewster came out of the shop to carry more of the buckets inside. “What if I pay attention to the daughter to gather information?” He was amazed that he thought the suggestion much less making it.

James rolled over on his cot and tried to put his thoughts of Bess, Sally, Sons of Liberty, Corporal Tilley aside. He could not get comfortable. Tomorrow, the General needed him an hour early.

Chapter 33

Boston, Massachusetts

December1774

 

 JAMES HOLLOWAY BOUNDED up the nine steps and stood between the two pillars of the four-story Governor’s mansion on Marlborough* Street. At a little after eight in the morning, he was early.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Gage answered his knock and said, “He’s in the study.” Usually, the maid answered. Maybe Mrs. Gage had been nearby when he’d knocked.

He brushed the snow from his coat and took off his boots outside before stepping into the entranceway. Mrs. Gage provided slippers for visitors rather than have mud tracked on the oriental rugs that covered the highly polished floors.

He had been told the night before that they would be working in Boston for the next few days. Even better, it would be out of the Governor’s mansion on Marlborough Street,* which pleased him.

James was getting used to the richness of the mansion was richer. Roaring fires burned in the fireplaces in occupied rooms. Chairs and couches were well-padded, except those around a table or near a desk. These would be highly polished with cloth-covered cushions. The fabric was often silk or high-quality cotton. Many were embroidered.

Mrs. Gage handed James coat to Beth, the maid, who carried it to an unknown destination. James knew even if he left in half an hour, it would have been dried.

“I’ll send up another pot of tea to warm you. Some toast too?”

“But …”

“Don’t worry about the General. I’ll send some for him too. He’ll be hungry by now, since he didn’t stop for breakfast.”

*****

James found General Gage wearing a robe over his civilian pants and shirt. His wig was on a wooden faceless head on a table behind his desk. Not much light escaped through the part of the thick glass that wasn’t covered with drapes so dark green they almost looked black.

A second tabletop to the left of the heavy mahogany desk was invisible. Maps of Salem, Watertown, Arlington, Lexington and Concord covered every bit of the wooden top. The detail included the names of the people who owned the houses sketched along the named streets. Other maps showed major routes and minor paths, north, south, east and west.

James had been instrumental in collecting the maps from the people who had been commissioned to draw them. When each map was brought to him, the General sent a soldier with the map to the area drawn to check the accuracy. “I can’t risk losing a battle over bad information, if it comes down to a battle,” he’d said to James. “I hope it never comes to that.”

When mentioning a possible battle, Gage almost always voiced his dislike of the need.

 

*Marlborough Street is now Province. The Governor’s Mansion was torn down in 1922.

 

That he shared his opinions so often with someone of private rank amazed James. He supposed that the General needed to talk to someone. If he talked to other officers or to members of the Council, things were repeated, sometimes accurately, but more often than not twisted to fit different political agendas.

In the time he had worked for the General, James had learned the General was stubborn. His mind could be changed but the amount of the information it took to do so was vast. For example, the General would never consider that the local population might have legitimate reasons for their actions.

He’d heard Mrs. Gage at least twice try to present the locals’ point of view. Each time the General had brushed an imaginary crumb from his sleeve along with her opinion. There was no room in his mind for anything other than it was the army’s job to eliminate all thoughts of rebellion no matter how small.

What had shocked James even more wasn’t just the locals versus the crown divide but how the men around the General jockeyed for their own positions. He wondered if the King’s Court was the same way. Maybe the rebellious Sons of Liberty were the same even though the General referred to them as a unified body, couldn’t they have their own squabbles?

“I trust you, James,” General Gage said. “Can you ask my wife to have some tea sent up for two people?”

“It is not a difficult assignment, although I appreciate your trust, Sir. Getting tea.” He had learned he had some leeway to speak with the General.

This was one of those times because the General smiled. “Don’t be cheeky.”

“I didn’t mean to be, Sir. I met her in the hall. She said she was sending us tea.”

“No, not just for us. For Dr. Benjamin Church. He’s expected any minute. You can take your tea with us. I want your opinion of Dr. Church.

The General wants my opinion? Good Lord, James thought. “Isn’t Church a member of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress?”

“James, that’s why I talk with you. If I walked into the mess of the 43^rd and asked everyone eating, who is Dr. Church, I bet one or two at the most, and if that, would know the name. How did you?”

“I read it in the Boston Gazette.”

When a knock came at the door, James opened it. The maid entered with a tray bearing a tea pot, two cups and two plates of toast. A red jam was in a small dish.

“Set it down, please,” the General said. “Over there.” He pointed to a small side table. “And then go and prepare another tray for three. Tea, nothing else. We’ll take it in the reception room, not here.”

The tea and toast looked inviting. James had missed breakfast in his rush to get to work. He did not want to start to eat and drink before the General. He found their relationship a strange combination of army ritual and an almost comradeship. He had no idea why it was like it was. He was less sure how to handle it other than constantly saying, “Yes, Sir.”

“Eat, eat,” the General said. “Then prepare the reception area. I want Dr. Church to feel comfortable. Make sure that the softer chairs are around the small round table. On second thought, I don’t want him too comfortable. Use wooden chairs. Remove the cushions.”

The jam was strawberry sweetened with honey. Sugar was in short supply even for the elite. James consumed the toast in three bites. At least the tea had cooled during the trip from the kitchen. “Do you want any papers for the meeting?”

The General rubbed his chin and was silent for a minute. “Excuse me. My mind is in many places today. This meeting with Church. The Provincial Council are nothing but trouble. The lack of taxes being collected. And most important, I still need to find those frigging cannons. I will never understand how two cannons can be stolen during the day and from under our noses.”

“It was strange, Sir. Broad daylight as we were drilling.”

“That was September. This is December. I’d think someone would have seen them.”

“Not for lack of searching, Sir.”

“It keeps me up, James, it really does. When Dr. Church gets here, please don’t keep him waiting. On second thought, let’s keep him waiting, and we’ll serve him cold tea.”