Lexington:Anatomy of a Novel. Ch. 20- 21

Chapter 20

Winchester, England

May 1774

 

 

JAMES HOLLOWAY TRIPPED over a branch and fell into a puddle. All the bread he was carried was soaked. How would he tell William?

“James, wake up! James, wake up!” It took James a few moments to realize he wasn’t in Ely on a rainy day, but in the 43^rd Regiment of Foot’s barracks in Winchester. No longer were the recruits who joined with him in a separate room. Instead, they all had been melded into another building. One hundred cots were divided into two rows of fifty each.

There were small windows about eight feet up the wooden wall that made the room look as if it were a stable, except there were no barriers between beds and no straw on the floor. Each bed had a single blanket, but the weather had turned warm enough that most soldiers slept without it.

He had grown so accustomed to the routine that he didn’t even think about many of the things that he did daily. Because he did everything well, Anderson and Carver didn’t yell at him anymore. Most of the other soldiers were the same. Pride of performance ran high.

As he tried to orient himself, he felt a flash of gratitude that he had been dreaming and he wouldn’t have to face William about ruined bread.

His half-awake brain realized that it was Thomas Miller talking to him.

What was he doing waking him in the middle of the night?

Why was Thomas dressed in his uniform?

James rubbed his eyes and sat up. Thomas held out boots, which James slipped on without stockings, knowing the leather would chafe his feet.

Thomas pulled James to his feet, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and led him between the rows of cots to the exit. He shut the door with only a slight click, although with the noise of the snorers it was doubtful any sleeping soldier would be disturbed.

“Follow me.”

James followed.

Outside only a sliver of moonlight pierced the dark. The roosters hadn’t crowed yet. No birds sang. It was spring cool. James shook his head. “What’s, I mean why …?”

About fifty feet from the door, Thomas said. “We’re going to the colonies. Boston, the whole bloody lot of us.”

James had heard of the colonies. His great uncle had moved there well before he was born. The only reason he knew anything about the uncle was that his mother had mentioned her brother, whom she had never heard from after he left. He was held up to her children as someone who dared. Dared to try and find a better life. Dared to not do what everyone else did. James was never sure because of his disappearance, if the daring was a good or bad thing. Since his mother assumed he was dead the scale tipped on the bad side.

James’s father did not speak well of the uncle. His departure for the colonies had more to do with the danger of being arrested for poaching. The mention of him always led to an argument between James’ parents. His mother mourned that the family had never heard anything from him after he left/escaped depending on whether it was his mother or father telling the story.

James wished he could have talked to his uncle about what happened to him. He was sure he would recite adventures.

“What are you talking about?”

Thomas looked around to make sure no one could hear, which was absurd, James thought. Everyone was asleep. “When I was waiting tables at the officers’ mess, I heard the officers talking. We are going to cross the Atlantic. The colonists need controlling. The second Tea Party was the last straw, they said.”

“Hun?” James rubbed his eyes.

“The colonists didn’t want to pay the tea tax so they dumped a whole bunch of tea into the Boston Harbor, at least that’s what some of the officers were saying.”

“I know about the tea party. Stupid name for vandalism. So? What has that got to do with us?”

“The Governor, I think his name is Hutchinson or something, wants reinforcements. I guess he’s worried about some kind of uprising.”

James rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t paid much attention to the little they heard from the colonies. He knew they didn’t like taxes, especially a stamp tax, but who did? They were Englishmen. Englishmen paid taxes to the King. The sun came up in the morning whether or not one could see it through the clouds.

“When? How?”

“They’ve already arranged for a ship or ships. There was lots of jabber about how much room for how many. Horses. Food. Guns. Powder. As for when? Soon. Maybe even this week. 

 

Chapter 21

Atlantic Ocean

June 1774

 

JAMES HOLLOWAY COULD see nothing but open sea. He had stared at the English shoreline until it had disappeared about an hour ago.

“I’m a soldier. I shouldn’t be afraid,” he muttered. He found it amazing that with about 800 soldiers and a crew cut in half to make room for soldiers that this floating combination of wood, metal and cloth could cross this endless mass of water to Boston.

He was afraid, although he would never admit it. He had no way to get off without drowning. He wanted his feet to be on a surface that didn’t move.

His back and shoulders ached from carrying supplies of salt pork, beef, flour, plums — where had they come from? — oatmeal and kegs of beer. Heavy, heavy kegs of beer. They rolled them part of the way, but then they had to be hoisted onto shelves and secured with rope so they wouldn’t roll off and kill someone.

The food at the base had not been wonderful, but this was going to get more boring, day after day, week after week.

Their commanding officer had shown them a map to their final destination. He had seen a map of his trip from Ely to Winchester with towns and villages marked along the way. Only water existed from England to Boston. Light blue lines marked coastlines too far apart.

Those not on some kind of immediate duty could wander the ship. To reassure himself, James explored all four decks, estimating that the ship was 177 x 144 feet or close to it. He counted the sails that were up each day. He dreaded that he might have to climb the masts. He and heights would never be friends. He counted 90 cannons protecting the ship from pirates. He had never thought that meeting a pirate would be in his future.

On the fifth day, the ship’s strength was tested.

A major storm tossed the boat like the balls James had thrown against the house as a child. They had bounced, making noise, until his father or mother yelled at him to stop and complete his chores. The ship kept bouncing. Nothing was going to stop it.

He lay in his hammock wishing he were dead. He had emptied his stomach so often that not even bile came up, but still he heaved.

He wasn’t alone. Those in other hammocks were doing the same. Two hammocks down Danny, the drummer boy, slept. Twice, Danny’s mother, when he had eaten with the family, had asked him to protect her son. How could anyone protect against a storm where the waves continually tossed the boat hither and yon.

The lower decks stank of vomit, bile, shit.

The sound of vomiting and moaning combined with wind and waves slapping against the ship made James rethink his disbelief in hell.

After three days, James woke in his hammock, where he had taken refuge between spells of vomiting. The smells were still there but the ship, instead of being thrown about, was almost still.

With what little strength he had left, he staggered to the upper deck. A breeze kissed his face, a reminder of his survival. The sails barely moved, a bad sign. The sails to propel the ship to Boston had to be stronger to end this nightmare. The less sail, the longer the trip.

Several of his regiment were on the deck, some laying down too weak to do otherwise: others washed the deck or made repairs. One mast was laying on the deck. Some of the sails in tatters were being mended.

Toby, a member of the regular crew, came through saying, “Ya must eat mates. Build your strength.”

Food was the last thing on his mind. James barely had the strength to make it to the deck. If he went below to face a table covered with food or to sip a beer, he’d gag.

“I ain’t bringing the food to you,” Toby yelled. He wasn’t an officer, so James felt no need to obey him.

Days later when James had been able to eat and once again the ship was moving normally, the officers were trying to get the company back into some kind of order.

Where they slept below had been washed down with sea water reducing the smell to bearable.

Regular duties had been assigned.

Thomas had volunteered to climb the masts. It was the one job that James couldn’t imagine doing, but he admired his friend’s courage.

Word came down that the ship’s baker had been swept overboard in the storm. James had been one of the soldiers assigned to search every cranny to find him without success. The regular crew, who had sailed with the baker for several years, mourned his passing.

James went to the lieutenant who had supervised the cleanup. “Sir, before I joined, I was a baker. Could I be of use?” His motive was not totally selfless. If he were responsible for baking, he would never be required to climb a mast.

Thus, James found himself in the galley. The oven was better than the one he had had at home, the flour of lesser quality. It didn’t matter. For the rest of the voyage, he was saved from all other duties.

He shared his hammock with Joseph Cavanaugh, a boy from Ireland. Not at the same time of course. James began baking bread at three in the morning. This was about the same time Joseph came off his watch. When Joseph was getting up, James went off duty. Sometimes the two of them would chat at the hand over. Joseph was excited to be going there because his older brother had gone to Boston many years before as an indentured servant.

It could have been worse, he kept telling himself.