Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 56-57

 

Chapter 56

Boston, Massachusetts

February 1775

 TO SAY IT had been a difficult month for James was an understatement. He had had almost no time to drill with his regiment. The few times he did, he felt his actions were not automatic as they should be in the way he handled his Brown Bess. At least some strength and energy was returning. Other soldiers who were recovering from dysentery were also struggling, but they did not have split responsibilities.

He had asked Corporal Tilley to borrow the Manual of Arms to study. It described exactly how his fingers should be placed on the gun. There were 35 different drills in the manual. These he read at night by candlelight to the snores of his fellow privates. He’d committed 25 to memory so far.

Corporal Tilley had remarked that very few privates would be able to read and understand the Manual like James did. He suggested maybe they should exchange ranks.

James could not explain why he was so devoted to learning how to fight properly, something he never thought he would have to do … never wanted to do.

The soldiers were aware that tensions between the army and locals were growing … James even more so. He was with the General almost every day. There had been only one day last week when the General insisted that he train with the regiment and that was because it wasn’t routine training. The regiments went out of the city into a wood to practice shooting.

Expensive cartridges were not to be wasted the officers kept telling them and yelled “Aim, aim, aim.” They practiced individually, and they practiced in formation until their cartridge cases were empty and their Brown Bess guns hot to the touch.

More and more the General was in what James’ mother would have called “a tizzy.” Even Mrs. Gage couldn’t calm him. He had yelled at her once to get out and leave him to do men’s work. That was the only time James had seen him raise his voice at his wife.

The maid ushered a man into the study where the General and James were drafting letters to the governors of other colonies, suggesting they work together against any uprising. The sentiment might not be as high as it was in Massachusetts, according to different intelligent reports, but it was there.

“What is it?” the General asked the man. “And who are you?”

“A sailor. William Barrows, Sir. We just docked from London. I was told to bring you this from London and to run.” He handed the General an envelope.

James stifled a smile. If they just docked from London, the letter had taken months to arrive in Boston. Running to save a few minutes seemed ridiculous at best. He would not say it. In fact, considering the General’s mood the last few weeks, he usually only said, “Yes, Sir,” or “No, Sir.” The only time he ate with the family was when the General was out of town and Mrs. Gage invited him for company.

Lunches, when eaten in the kitchen with the cook, maid and the children’s tutor, were a relief compared to the tension when he ate in the study with the General.

Often if they were on the road, the General didn’t bother eating at all.

“Wait for a reply, sailor.” The General rang for the maid and ordered to take the sailor to the kitchen for tea and something to eat if the man was hungry.

Unless the ship was leaving the harbor shortly after arriving, James didn’t see the need to get a response prepared so fast.

The General tore open the envelope. His frown deepened, if that were possible. “Bloody hell! James, tell the sailor, I’ve forgotten his name, he can go back to his ship after he eats.”

The General paced around the study waving the paper he had just received. “Fuck! Shit! Bloody balls!”

James wasn’t sure what to do other than stay out of the General’s way.

“What in the name in all that’s holy do they expect me to do differently? I ask you.”

James said nothing because he still didn’t know what was in the letter. Even then, he doubted he could have said anything that would have helped the General.

“I’ve tried to find those bloody cannons. I’ve tried to keep control of the powder. I’ve tried to keep those damned colonists from forming their own governments.”

The General went behind his desk, sat down and stood up again. “Democracy? What the hell do they know about democracy? Most of them are illiterate. Humans need kings.”

James wanted to say that he supposed there were good kings and bad kings. He didn’t know much history, but he’d read articles in the Boston Gazette on power abuses. Controlling one’s own destiny did not seem such a bad idea, but there was no way he was going to ever speak that idea aloud much less let the General hear those words from him.

James knew that the General was doing everything he could.

There was another knock at the door and the maid entered. She handed the General an envelope.

The General’s face changed. “Read this, James. Wonderful news.”

James recognized Dr. Church’s writing. He had filed enough letters from the man, despite the General claiming to have destroyed them.

“It says that the cannons are in Salem. Twelve. Near the North River.” James wondered with all the time that the General had spent in Salem if he hadn’t passed where they were hidden. Another thing he would never say.

“Go get Lt. Col. Alexander Leslie. Find him and tell him to come here immediately. He’s going to go get those cannons, now.” 

Chapter 57

Boston, Massachusetts

December

THE STARBUCKS WAS like every other Starbucks. Although she would have preferred a tearoom that wasn’t a chain, Daphne Andrews did like their chai lattés and blueberry muffins.

Holding her Styrofoam cup with her name spelled “Dafny” and her muffin wrapped in paper, she spied Florence at a table with a man who looked as if he were in his early forties. She assumed he was around the same age as Florence.

He stood as Daphne walked over to the table. The area was almost empty but 10:00 was after the early morning and before the lunch rushes. She put down her cup and muffin amid folders on the round table and took his thrust hand.

“Jason Jenkins. And you are Daphne.”

They sat. Florence and Jason had muffins as well as coffee. Florence’s was blueberry, Jason’s looked to be chocolate.

Daphne had been late in leaving, because Gareth instead of going to work early as usual had puttered around the flat. He’d finally called for his driver at 9:10 and it had taken the man until 9:45 to wend his way through the end of Boston rush hour.

She had dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her plans to change into something more businessy were forgotten. Better to be on time. Besides she was supposed to be a writer and a historian and at 10 in the morning, informality could be considered normal.

She didn’t blame Gareth for his devotion to proper dress. He met with bankers and corporate leaders on behalf of the United Kingdom. Sweats would never have been appropriate. They were required to go to enough events where photos might be taken and as he said, “Who knows what rag they’ll appear in.”

“We waited for you.” Florence reached for the portfolio case.

“It was hard. She slapped my hand when I tried to look before you came.” He took the portfolio and began shuffling through the pages.

Both women didn’t say a word. Jason smiled and said things like “Mmm, ahh, hmm.”

When he put the last page on the table, he looked at both women. He let silence hang.

Daphne wanted to scream, “What?” but Florence beat her too it.

Still Jason didn’t speak.

“Speak,” Florence said.

He took a deep breath. “The concept is fantastic. The drawing is beautiful. The writing is good, although I’d change a couple of the spellings to American.”

As he reached for one of the drawings, his hand hit Florence’s coffee spilling it on the drawings. “Shit!”

“Don’t worry. They are all on the computer,” Florence said.

“Which is why I love computers,” he said. “It’s good for klutzes like me.”

“What can we tell you?” Daphne asked. She was good at probing. It had served her well with the old man at Tweed.

“How does it end?”

“Probably with the battle of Lexington. We’re thinking of having Abigail dress up in her brother’s clothes.”

“At first we were thinking of two books, one for Adam, one for Abigail.”

“I prefer one,” Jason said. “Here’s what I want to do. First, as Commission Editor, I still have to bring the manuscripts to a committee, which includes someone from sales. Educational publishing can be very political with different school boards and political correctness and all that.”

Both women nodded.

“Also, we are considering going into computer programs as well as doing more stuff on-line. This would be great for that. “Florence have you ever done a computer game?”

“She shook her head. “I could learn.”

“I’m also thinking we could have a whole series of historical comics. We could be a new form of CliffsNotes.”

“Working with us? Or would you turn this over to your staff?”

Daphne was glad Florence had voiced her worries that he would steal their ideas.

“We could do it a number of ways. One: put you both on staff, which may not be too popular because of the cost of benefits.”

“Neither of us have working permits,” Daphne said.

“I suppose we can get those,” he said. “Or two, hire you as freelancers.”

“We still aren’t supposed to be working. I’m not sure what it would take to create a company. If we couldn’t have a company, could you buy our work from an overseas company?” Florence asked.

“That might be a way.”

“We don’t have a company …. yet!” Florence said. France is full of red tape, but my husband can help us get through much of it.”

“I want to get my marketing person in on our next meeting. Are you ladies free on Friday? Come into our office so you can meet people.”

“Yes.” They said it in unison.

“I’ve gotta run. I’ll get back to you.” He hugged Florence, looked at Daphne.She held out her arms. “If we’re going to work together, maybe a hug is okay. To hell with Covid.”

After he left, the women sat quietly.

“I don’t believe it. Publishing shouldn’t be this easy.”

“Probably wouldn’t be if I didn’t know Jason. We might have shown it to another person or persons who would turn us down.”

“They should know how to sell it. “I mean we could research the market ourselves, if we wanted to publish ourselves but …”

“No need to reinvent the wheel.” Florence started gathering up the pages. “Take these home for final suggestions. Meanwhile, I have to fight the battle that had the shot heard round the world.”