Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 46-47

 

Chapter 46

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

  

MRS. GAGE SAT next to James’ bed. A tray with a bowl of soup and a cup of tea rested on her lap. Steam rose from both of them. “Good. You’re awake.”

James guessed it was early morning because of the light through the windows. He couldn’t be sure because a veil of snow drifted by the panes.

He was warm, almost hot, between two quilts covering his bed and the fireplace fire. The wood must have had some moisture pockets considering the crackles, the only other sound in the room besides the scraping of a spoon in the bowl.

Mrs. Gage spooned soup into his mouth. “Chicken broth. A little rice. It’ll help build your strength.”

He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. The pancakes?

How long had he been in bed?

How did the General feel about his orderly occupying one of his bedrooms?

Where was the General?

Asking would take more energy than he had.

“Finish at least half of the soup, then Robert will come to give you a sponge bath. We need you to sit in the chair so he can change your bedding.” Another spoonful dribbled into James’ mouth.

A man knocked.

“Come in,” Mrs. Gage said.

James recognized Robert from the 10^th Regiment. He was dressed in civilian clothes. The man carried a bowl of water. A towel was thrown over his shoulder.

Mrs. Gage handed him the tray and stood. “You can finish feeding him. I need to make sure the cook boils the ham for tonight’s meal. It’s Christmas Eve, you know, James.”

Christmas. He’d heard that the colonists had mixed feelings about Christmas. Because he came from Ely, Oliver Cromwell’s home, he grew up being told that Christmas had been banned by him. The idea didn’t seem that strange. He had heard that many of the most devout Bostonians still shared the Puritan viewpoint that Christmas was a pagan holiday.

His father had shared family lore about how their ancestors flipped religions between Catholic, Anglican and Puritan, depending on who was in power. He said it made him question not God but man’s versions of God. His father used to joke their religion was bread, but he would never say it to anyone outside the family. Caution because one never knew who would come into power next and what rules would be replaced with new rules.

He never imagined that another man would undress him even if all he had on was a night shirt that barely came to his knees. He wondered if it were the General’s. He knew he wouldn’t ask. The water was lukewarm. Robert soaped the cloth before wiping it on James body giving special attention to his underarms. Then he would dip the cloth in the already soapy water before “rinsing” the area he’d just washed.

Before he could warn Robert not to go near his prick, Robert said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch your willie or bag.”

The sponge bath left him so exhausted that he fell asleep in the chair where Robert had deposited him like some castoff clothing.

A knock on the door woke him. Before he could tell the person to enter, Beth came in pressing clean linen to her chest.

She didn’t say anything but bobbed as a demi-curtsy.

He wanted to ask her about herself, but she acted as if he weren’t in the room. And talking still took more energy that he could seem to summon.

Without a word she stripped and remade his bed. Each movement was graceful. As a finishing touch she fluffed the two pillows before bouncing another curtsy and leaving with the dirty linen clutched to her chest.

Although the bed was only a few steps away from the chair, James grabbed onto the nightstand before collapsing in the bed and pulling the covers up to his neck. He was asleep within seconds. 

Chapter 47

October

Argelès-sur-mer, France

 I’M STILL SEARCHING for ways to tie Daphne and Florence more closely to the past.

This morning it came to me … The Wayside Inn. In the 70s and 80s I’d eaten there several times when I lived in Waltham and worked in Maynard. It put me in touch with my Yankee roots just by walking in. Although my ancestor on my mother’s side, John Sargent, fought in the American Revolution, I’ve not been able to trace his life enough to know if he was at the April 18^th battle in Lexington. He probably hadn’t lived there, but it was not impossible that he would have been part of the Minutemen from other towns that had rushed to support the early rebels.

I could imagine Henry Wadsworth Longfellow sitting at the Inn getting inspiration and writing about the “crimson curtains rent and thin” and Bronson Alcott leaving Fruitlands with some of his friends to eat and wax philosophical.

In other times, I would have needed to spend hours in a library or visit the site. Visits during a pandemic of a restaurant across the Atlantic were impossible. Even without the pandemic, cost would be prohibitive.

My memories were of wood and roast lamb with mint sauce.

In describing any place, Victorian writers would go overboard almost creating a visual of every petal in a flower or every thread in a chair covering. Modern writers select just enough detail to allow the reader to “see” the scene as if they were there.

In my covid-safe office and my butterfly-decorated laptop (see only two details), I used the internet for the history and Google images for the way the Inn looks now. The Inn’s website provided the menu and information on historic drinks.

I also decided that if I had James stop at the Inn in his narrative, I’d better give it its historic name, Howe.

I made a mental note, that if/when I’m back in the area, I want to go there for lunch.