Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel - Ch. 58-59

 

Chapter 58

St. Gallen, Switzerland

 WHAT MAKES A good writing day?

A day where the words come easily and there are few, or better still, no interruptions.

This was a good writing day to create the chapter where Alexander Leslie explains to General Gage why he didn’t retrieve the missing cannons. It was a day when I thought I wouldn’t be writing at all.

Rick and I were in St. Gallen, Switzerland. The city goes back to the 7^th century. The hotel where we stayed goes back to the 1500s and there were half beams galore. It’s located in the heart of the old city near an abbey and a medieval library.

Rick was playing in a hickory golf tournament. Always a passionate golfer, he became entranced with groups using the ancient clubs, either reproduced or new. I go along whenever the location of a tournament interests me.

I planned a writing free day to poke more deeply into various historic sites I’d seen when we were there before.

After settling into the hotel, we walked around the area. We found a restaurant, a real treat after the pandemic shutdowns and quarantines of the last year. I tripped over a cement umbrella holder on the terrace, twisting my left foot. I wasn’t going to let it spoil my day. After breakfast the next morning I planned to limp around the old town.

If there is a good writing fairy who makes it possible to advance in your writing, she was out in force today. It started to rain.

Limping and getting soaked were a message from the universe: write. Back in our beautiful half-timbered room I opened my laptop.

The scene I wanted to work on and which I couldn’t get quite right was Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Leslie reporting why he failed in his mission to find the missing cannons. Although not generally well known as the Battle at Lexington, some historians claim it to be the opening of the American Revolution.

My research had produced many reports of the event including conversations. No matter the source, they were remarkably similar making me comfortable with the authenticity of my content.

I needed to check on the origin of the song “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The story behind the lyrics is that the lower classes stuck feathers in their caps to mock the higher classes. The feathers were then called macaroni. I never found out why.

Supposedly, the song went back to Oliver Cromwell’s time. As much as I would like to use the background about the song in the novel, it is too much information. At no time do I want to give the appearance of putting research into a book just because I have it. I should only use it when it is relevant. I couldn’t think of a way to make it relevant.

Good writing has more show than tell. I did not want to do a real-time show chapter on the encounter at Salem bridge because that would take the emphasis away from James.

I couldn’t have James go to Salem with Leslie, because Leslie’s was a different regiment. James was already stretched between duties in his regiment and to the General, who would have other things for James to do that day.

Then it came to me. I could put James in the scene because of his role as the General’s orderly. His observations of Leslie’s report allow me to sneak in the results of my research and move the plot forward, making it semi-show and semi-tell. I was able to show General Gage’s reactions as Leslie reveals what happened.

The good word fairy was working overtime to help me. My fingers had trouble keeping up with my brain.

I find long dialogues hard to write. I did it in three steps. First the dialogue itself. Then I went back to clarify who said what and add to the background.

In one paragraph I decided to rewrite several long sentences into even more short sentences. Multiple short sentences would help build the tension I wanted.

Finally, I added James’ observations to give more depth and keep the point of view consistent. He can observe Gage’s anger rather than have it from Gage’s point of view.

Thank you, Word Fairy!

Chapter 59

Boston and Salem, Massachusetts

February 1775 

 

“WHAT IS TAKING him so long?” General Gage paced the length of the library. He was dressed in civilian clothes. The top button of his shirt was undone. The clock approached midnight. A cup of cold tea was on his desk between piles of papers.

He and James had been working all day from the Governor’s mansion, strategizing the next moves while waiting for Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Leslie to return from Salem with the stolen cannons. James would write down the General’s ideas along with lists of the pros and cons.

James wanted to go to sleep: the General wanted him to stay.

Before James could answer that he had no idea what was taking so long, the maid knocked at the study door, which really was unnecessary since the door was open. Poor girl, James thought. She should have been through with her duties hours ago and asleep in her attic room. The General had insisted she wait up for Leslie’s arrival.

The General was normally rational and even kind but seemed to have a monster hiding inside his body the last few days. It took over his mind and changed his comportment.

“Yes?” the General said to the maid.

“Lieutenant Colonel Leslie is here.”

“Send him in.”

James knew by Leslie’s posture as he entered the study that things had not gone well.

The General picked up on it too. “Tell me you have the cannons.”

James knew that Leslie, who was in his early forties, was the second son of some earl. Second sons couldn’t inherit. Some bought their way into the Army. Many were incompetent, but Leslie had a good reputation. Soldiers under him in his 64^th Regiment of Foot didn’t complain much. At least, James didn’t remember them complaining when other privates bitched about their leaders.

“I don’t have good news,” Leslie said.

The General exploded. “God damn it! You had 250 men with you.” He raged on, barely coherent as Leslie stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed to whatever he saw on the floor.

James realized he was watching an interesting phenomenon. In social class, Leslie was higher, but in rank Gage was higher as well as 15 years older. Rank outweighed class.

Leslie said nothing as the General yelled and yelled.

The General stopped mid-sentence. The room went quiet. James noticed the stillness. He had mentally shut out the General’s rants.

Almost in a whisper, the General said, “Tell me about it.”

Leslie stopped staring at the floor and looked at the General, while avoiding his eyes, James noticed. “My men, all members of my regiment, took a boat from Boston to Marblehead. We arrived at Hooman’s Cove. Do you know it?”

“Of course, I know it, idiot.”

James knew the General was not in the habit of insulting his officers, but the pressure on him to quell the increasing rebellion and to make sure the locals lacked the wherewithal to attack was mounting. Communiques from London had shown no understanding of the situation. James dreaded every time one arrived, because it threw the General into foul moods that even Mrs. Gage couldn’t alleviate.

“There were a few other boats in the Cove. I think they were mainly local fishermen. We couldn’t see anyone on them. We were right to schedule the maneuver on a Sunday because people would be at church. Not as many people around.”

“I was at the planning session. Tell me what I don’t know,” the General said.

“Those who saw us must have spread an alarm. Two hundred fifty men marching through a small town is quite noticeable, don’t you know, Sir. Especially when the fife and drum corps are playing, ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’”

“I don’t need your sarcasm, Leslie. And why in God’s name were you playing a song? That song?”

“Sorry, Sir. I was trying to explain. We thought that it would inspire our men and scare and ridicule the locals as if anyone could be turned from a commoner into a noble by putting a piece of macaroni in his hat.”

“You were on mission to capture cannons, not entertain or mock an audience.”

“Yes, Sir. It was a rag-tag group that awaited us by the time we reached the North Bridge in Salem. You know it, Sir?

“Of course, I do.”

The bridge had been drawn up. A large group, not just militia, came with guns. The townspeople blocked our route.”

“And then …”

“I ordered them to lower the bridge. I reminded them it was part of the Kings Royal Highway.”

“Their reaction?” the General asked.

“They refused. They claimed they’d built and paid for the bridge themselves. It was hard to believe that they were that …”

“And you couldn’t cross the river? Afraid of being wet?”

“Any boat we might use had been sabotaged.”

At this point the General sat on the edge of his desk. He did not invite Leslie to sit.

James had already been seated. He didn’t dare even move his foot, which was beginning to ache from being in a bad position.

“I threatened to fire, and someone, I think it was John Felt, I can’t be sure, but I remember seeing Felt at a meeting once and it looked like him. I guessed he was about 50. I could tell by his clothing he was fairly well to do.”

“What did he say?”

“Something to the effect to fire, but if we did, we’d all die.”

“So did anyone fire?”

“You have to see …”

“I don’t have to see anything. I need those damned cannons, and I want to know what happened that I don’t have them.” The General stood. “I can’t believe it, 250 men against some country bumpkins with no training.”

James didn’t think it was a good idea to remind the General that Dr. Church had reported that the rebels had gotten their hands on the British training manual and were using it with regular drilling practices. He resisted the urge to rub the cramp in his foot.

“Some of the locals were sitting on top of the drawn bridge, taunting us. A woman from one of the houses along the river looked out her window and yelled to shoot her. Of course, we didn’t.”

“It might have felt good if you had.”

“The situation would have only worsened if we had. I personally would have liked to kill every damned one of them. Then it happened.”

“What happened?”

“One of the idiots ripped open his shirt and dared one of my men to stab him. One did scratch him, only slightly. It infuriated the crowd. Suddenly this parson arrived. He introduced himself to me as Thomas Barnard. Said he lived in Salem but didn’t say which church where he was the parson. He butted in.”

“To what purpose?”

“To calm the crowd, to send us back to Boston.”

“I told him, I had my orders from you, Governor, to cross the bridge and find the cannons. We knew where they were. Barnard walked over to Felt. Damned near fell on a patch of snow that had melted and frozen again. Then the two of them came over to me and asked if we marched across the bridge and looked where we thought the cannons were, would we go back to Boston?”

Here Leslie paused as if unsure how to tell the General what happened next. James did not envy the man. The General disliked failure, his or anyone else’s.

“They lowered the bridge. We all marched over. We went to where we were told the cannons were. Nothing, absolutely nothing. I had my soldiers try one or two other buildings nearby. Still nothing.”

“Did it occur to you, that maybe, just maybe, the rebels had moved the cannons while you were losing a standoff at the bloody bridge?”

“Yes Sir. But by that time there were so many footprints we couldn’t find any wagon wheel marks to follow if that was how and when they moved the cannons.”

“Get out,” Gage hollered. “I can’t stand to hear anymore.”

Leslie grabbed his tricorne hat and left so fast it was difficult to believe he had ever been in the room.