Chapter
26
Boston, Massachusetts
September
1774
James
Holloway had found during July and August his uniform and bearskin hat were almost
unbearable. He’d developed a rash across his forehead that matched the hat’s
rim. He much preferred the tricorn. He had learned in marching practice, it had
to be slanted to one side to keep this Brown Bess from knocking it off.
Each
morning when the wake-up bugle sounded, James jumped off his cot and stuck his
head out the flap to check the weather. He noticed some of the trees on the
Common were edged in red and yellow, but they were still attached to the tree.
He
was in no hurry for winter to come. At the Green Dragon, where many of the
regiments hung out evenings, those who had spent the previous winter told of
snow up to their thighs and brutal winds off the harbor.
Thomas
Miller, Moses Fletcher and James had been assigned to the crew renovating a big
building that would make up the winter quarters of the 43rd. It was
located across a rough road between their camp and different types of
buildings: houses, offices, shops, warehouses. Their future barracks had been a
warehouse. The inside had been gutted by fire five years before, leaving a
brick shell, but the walls were strong. The Military Governor Thomas Gage had
turned it over to the 43rd, 52nd and 59th
regiments.
Other
buildings had been appropriated for other regiments. The new laws had said
soldiers could be quartered in private homes. No one liked that idea, neither
the locals who feared the soldiers nor the soldiers who feared the locals.
Some
troops felt that if soldiers were in private homes, they could serve as spies,
which was what concerned locals. Some soldiers worried they would be killed in
their beds and their bodies dumped in the harbor. Others felt it might be nice
to be part of a family again. The talk to quarter soldiers in private homes
remained talk.
James
wished he could integrate more with locals. He didn’t understand why they
thought they were different than the Englishmen and women with whom he’d grown
up and who had been his customers. His brother had always told James he spent
too much time talking: in reality, he had done more listening. He wondered if
he could convince his superiors that he might be put to better use as a spy.
Instead,
he was put to work on the warehouse renovation crew. He wasn’t unhappy with the
assignment. He liked the measuring, sawing, fitting and nailing of the planks.
He found once shown how to do something, he perfected it quickly. Seeing the
renovation come together gave him pleasure.
About
an hour into the workday of the second Monday in September, James carried wood
planks to the second story floor. A man in civilian clothes approached him. The
quality of his clothes indicated a certain status, or so James thought. The man
wasn’t wearing a wig. His graying hair was tied back at the neck with a leather
string.
“Soldier,
can you give me a tour?”
A
tour? James wasn’t sure what to do. What if the man was a Sons of Liberty
scouting out where they could damage the soldiers?
John
Tilley, the corporal in charge of the project, was away arranging for the
delivery of more wood and nails. Because the project was ahead of schedule, the
higher ups left the soldiers alone to get on with it. Tilley had been a
carpenter in civilian life. He had a talent in teaching others. “If you ever
leave the army, you’ll be able to earn your living as a builder,” he told James.
“You’ve learned faster than anyone I’ve ever taught.
“If
you ever leave the army.” Interesting phase. James didn’t hate his current
life. In fact, it was pretty good. Instead of things being identical everyday
as they had been in Ely, there was some variation. Sure, there were the
marching drills and loading Brown Bess practice. Since he’d arrived, he had not
had the chance to fire a precious bullet. There was talk that they might
actually shoot a round or two late in September.
His
life was fine for now, but not forever?
“I’m
Thomas Gage,” the man said, “and you?”
Thomas
Gage, that was the Governor’s name and a General. He had seen the man from a
distance, but where was his uniform? “James Holloway. Private James Holloway.”
In case it was General Gage, he put down the planks and saluted.
“We’re
not in uniform. A salute isn’t necessary. I wasn’t about to wear my uniform on
a building site where it would get filthy.” He brushed imaginary sawdust from his
sleeves. “Not that I owe you an explanation.”
“No,
Sir. This way.”
James
started the tour on the ground floor, which was the most complete. All the time
Gage peppered him with questions about the construction project. It made James
uncomfortable.
He
wasn’t sure how much his superiors wanted the general to know. Unlike many
soldiers, James read well. He had been following news in the Boston Gazette and Country Journal. It was considered, he was told, a leading
Sons of Liberty leading rag. His interest in the newspaper had been piqued by
the wood carving print of an Indian on the upper left-hand corner of each
edition.
From
the newspaper, he’d learned that Gage had only assumed the governorship in May.
His appointment was in response to what was now the infamous Tea Party. As a
loyal British soldier, he shouldn’t admire the act, but something about the
audacity combined with the imagination of dressing as Indians appealed to him.
He would not, could not admit it to anyone, including Thomas.
James
was aware from his reading that the Tea Party had backfired on the locals. The
British issued four acts that had increased, not decreased the unrest — a bad
cycle.
Gage
been assigned Governor. Many privileges had been taken away from the locals. It
was bad enough that they had closed the port of Boston, but the Massachusetts
charter had been revoked, leaving the colony under the control of the Crown and
its representatives.
If
he was at the Green Dragon for a beer and in civilian clothes, he was more apt to
hear the rumblings of the locals or at least that was true early on. Now as
soon as the locals recognized him and any other soldiers, the mumblings
stopped.
“And
you, Private? You’re from …”
“Ely,
Sir.”
“What
did you do there?”
“I
was a baker.”
“And
being a baker qualifies you to be a carpenter?”
“Not
really, Sir. Corporal Tilley is an excellent teacher. I learn quickly.”
“Show
me some of work you did.”
James
took the general over to the cupboards he’d built. They were plain and made of
pine, but everything was perfectly aligned.”
“What
else, Private?”
James
showed him the stairs, again perfectly aligned and almost identical in height
and width. There was a curve as they went to the second floor. The banisters
and railings were also smooth.”
“Did
you do the finishing?”
“No,
Sir. Only the measuring, cutting and installing.”
“Hmm.”
Gage rubbed his cheek with his left hand. James noticed he had a bandage on his
hand, but he didn’t ask how the General might have been hurt. Privates don’t
question generals, no matter how tempting.
“I
gather you can read, write and know simple arithmetic?”
“Yes, Sir. My Mum insisted we go to school. She said we
couldn’t be good bakers without these basics.”
“Your
mum was right.” They heard footsteps approaching in the outer room.
“What’s
going on? Who’s this man?” Corporal John Tilley joined them on the stairs.
He
had a cloth bag containing nails of miscellaneous sizes slung over one
shoulder. This he dropped onto a stack of lumber to his right. “Well, speak up,
Private Holloway.”
“Don’t
blame him. I demanded he give me a tour. General Thomas Gage. And you are
Corporal …?”
*****
James walked back from the evening
meal. He had finally grown accustomed to the spruce beer served with meals. The
food was repetitive: pork, pork fat, dried peas, oatmeal, cheese. Sometimes
vegetables were added although he was told those would disappear when the
weather grew colder. He didn’t want to spend his money for food at the inns
scattered around the city. Saving was important although he wasn’t sure what he
was saying for exactly. After was all he knew. After, when he was once
again a civilian. He did not know when an opportunity would come. He hoped he would
know it when it did. In the meantime, it was fun to imagine different things
that might happen in the future.
For
the first time since he arrived, he could see his breath.
Thomas
was heading for the Green Dragon, but James didn’t want to spend the night
nursing a real beer, not spruce beer. The reaction of locals bothered him. They
kept saying how the Crown was destroying them, but not if they thought soldiers
were among them. By now he had been identified as a soldier. He hated how quiet
fell when he walked in. He wanted to say he didn’t want to hurt them. Couldn’t
they calm down and follow the laws?
His
alternative was going to bed early. A good night’s sleep would be welcome. His
muscles had become used to the type of movements he needed to do in the
renovation — or they had almost become accustomed.
Corporal
Tilley was sitting on James’ cot. “What the hell did you say to the General?”
James
recounted as much of the conversation as he remembered. Had he given away any
secrets that the lower echelons would want hidden from the top brass?
Although
Tilley was a slightly higher rank, they had spent so many days working on the
warehouse renovation that they were more relaxed than they might otherwise be
if they were on more military-type assignments. He felt he could ask, “Why?”
“Because
Gage has requested you report to him in the morning?”
“Did
I do something wrong?”
“He wants to make you his orderly.”
Chapter
27
Boston,
Massachusetts
August
“Why not? That way
I can look around.”
Daphne didn’t say
that she’d seen Florence look everywhere but the road on their other trips
while driving. When Florence had hopped out of the driver’s side and handed her
the keys, she felt relief
They had chosen a
beautiful July day to drive from Boston to Lexington. A few puffy white clouds
played peek-a-boo in the blue-blue sky. The humidity of the last three days
seemed to be taking a holiday from causing people to sweat excessively. It was
replaced by a gentle breeze that caressed the women’s faces as they changed
places in front of Daphne’s Comm Ave. building.
“Clim, AC?”
Florence asked.
“Do we need it?”
Daphne fastened her seat belt and started the engine. It was an automatic. In
Scotland she only drove standards, but it was easier going from standard to
automatic than the other way around.
Florence shook her
head as she fastened her seat belt on the passenger side. They pulled into
traffic.
The two women has
been in almost constant contact to discuss their project after their visit to
Louisa May Alcott’s house. They had rushed through the rooms, barely thinking
of Beth, Meg, Jo and Amy. By the time they had returned to the car, they were
bursting with ideas including how it could be educational and fun or perhaps
fun and educational.
So far they had
agreed to make it for 11-14-year-olds, boys and girls. The story would be set
around the first battle of the American Revolution.
Daphne was amazed
at the speed with which everything was coming together, or at least the
direction they needed to take to proceed. One of the first steps was to go to
Minute Man National Park in Lexington. They had an appointment with an
historian to find more information on how young boys and girls in the 1700s
lived.
Daphne’s job would
be to transform those lives in 1774-1775 into the words for a comic book.
Although she’d already started research, the women wanted to verify what would
become the comic’s details. “Accuracy, accuracy, accuracy,” had become their
moto.
Florence would
create the drawings. Both women wanted to make the colonial kids witnessing the
events before, during and after the April 18, 1775 Battle of Lexington to be
interesting to today’s kids.
Their project had
been delayed by the American Fourth of July and the July 14 French Fête
Nationale called Bastille Day locally. Both women had been caught up in
official celebrations. Daphne still thought it was dumb for the British
consulate to be involved in the July Fourth holiday marking England’s loss
until Florence said, “Look at it this way, you got rid of 13 pesky colonies.”
“The festivities
at the French Cultural Center were fantastic,” Daphne said. No wonder Florence
had been busy working on the committee that produced a street party that
included food, music, dancing. She didn’t say that Gareth had been furious when
he had found out she’d gone.
“I wasn’t there
officially,” she’d said. “With about 2,000 people milling around, I doubt if
anyone would notice that the wife of the English Consul General was there.”
“You can never be
unofficial,” he had said. He’d suggested she sleep in the spare room. At least
she hadn’t had to listen to him snore.
Although the women
hadn’t met face-to-face during their busy time, e-mails and messages had flown
back and forth when either had a chance to share ideas about what the comic
book would cover. They had tossed so many thoughts around, that had they
executed them all they would have created a library. They were reaching a point
where it was time to consolidate and organize their ideas.
They drove to
Lexington via the Mass Pike and Route 128 then on the back roads to enjoy the
countryside. Perhaps not the most efficient route, but the prettiest with the
colonial-style homes and fields of loosestrife just beginning to bloom,
creating a purple sea.
Although still in
the early stages of their project, they found themselves thinking in the same
vein on most things.
Florence pointed
to the left. “Stop.”
Daphne pulled into
a farm stand with a corn field behind.
“There’s nothing
like fresh picked corn. The best is when you have the water boiling as you pick
it. Trust me, a French woman, to appreciate anything to do with food.”
Back on the road
with corn for dinner in the back seat, Florence said, “Working with you is
fun.”
Daphne agreed.
“Have you given more thought to having kids review what we do?”
“Yes, but where do
we get them from? My step kids don’t count. They are older, in school in
Switzerland and have never spent much time in the U.S. Also, they are biased
toward their non-wicked stepmom so they would probably say it was good even if
it isn’t. Does the staff at your consulate have kids? Most of our people are
French.”
“Some are Brits
with a few locals. I’m not sure if they have kids and if they do, I’m not sure
how Gareth would feel about me asking.”
“He’s still not
sold on this project?”
What an
understatement, Daphne thought. He had forbidden her continuing. More and more
he tried to dictate her daily activities, including what she should wear when
she left the house. That was not a side she’d seen in their short courtship.
When they had a commuter relationship between London and Edinburgh, they spent
much of their time in bed with forays out for meals, theater and cinema.
“I’m still hoping
he’ll come around.” Daphne remembered her mother cautioning her to think
carefully when Daphne had introduced him to her a week before their marriage.
“Not that I don’t like him,” her mother had added. “How can I when I don’t know
him. Nor do you.” Still her parents said they would support whatever she did.
They always had. They would say their piece and then, as if there were a lock
between their thoughts and tongue, cheer Daphne on no matter what decision she
made.
“We could get
five, maybe ten kids, 11-13 years old, serve cake, ice cream.”
“Great idea.
Approach a school?” Then Daphne wouldn’t have to deal with Gareth.
They arrived at
the Minute Man parking lot. There were only three other cars.
As they walked
near the wooden North Bridge, Florence said, “Look,” and pointed to a small
stone engraved with a poem.
Grave
of British Soldiers
"They
came three thousand miles, and died,
To
keep the Past upon its throne:
Unheard,
beyond the ocean tide
Their
English mother made her moan."
April
19, 1775
“That must be
where Gareth laid the wreath Patriots Day,” Daphne said. “It seemed strange to
him. He didn’t want to do it, but he was told that the CG does it every year.”
The two women
stood in the middle of the slightly curved North Bridge. The Concord River
meandered below. The fields around them were so peaceful. Despite the heat and
humidity earlier in the week, there had been enough rain to keep the grass
green. Daphne shuddered, thinking of the contrast of the bloodshed that had
started a war.
“What would the
world be like if the colonies hadn’t rebelled? Hadn’t won the Revolution?”
Florence asked.
“I suspect my
country would be far more powerful. I read a book once, I forget the title,
about America if the South had won the Civil War. It was fascinating.”
They strolled a
grassy knoll to the visitor’s center. A man in a ranger uniform stood behind a
counter. “We’ve an appointment with Tom Atkins,” Daphne said.
“I’ll get him.”
Tom Atkins bounded
into the room. He had the type of face that looked as if he were smiling even
when he wasn’t. His blond hair was shaved close to his head, minimizing his
receding hairline. For three hours, he provided them with information about
people, events, stone walls, crops, education and clothing.
*****
Daphne and Florence found a
bakery/café near Lexington center which qualified for a postcard of a New
England village. Florence chose tea to go with her red velvet cupcake; Daphne
ordered coffee to accompany her apple pie. They found a table near the back of
the room. “I’m the one who should have the coffee as a French woman, and you as
a Brit should be drinking tea.”
“Think of me as a
Scot. You know what I’m thinking?”
“You would rather
have a scone than that cupcake?”
“No, this is about
our first comic.”
Florence leaned
forward. “Go ahead.”
“We both like
having twins, a boy and girl, maybe 12 years old, to cover pre and early teens.
The comic book will take the day before the battle, the day of the battle, the
day after the battle. Do you like the names Abigail and Adam? We can . . .”
“… use much of the
information from Ranger Tom.” Florence took a paper napkin and pulled a pencil
from her purse. She drew two faces. Voilà, meet Adam and Abigail.”
“We’ve wasted
enough time. Now we really need to get to work.”
The two women
high-fived.
Would Gareth
notice the history books they’d collected in the park gift shop, she wondered.
What would he say? Should she tell him what they planned? Marriage should not
be like this.
Check out D-L's website https://dlnelsonwriter.com
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