Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel

 In these chapters, James is thinking that someday he might find another woman. He sees a bit of General Gage's homelife. Dr. Church, a spy, is introduced.

Chapter 32

Boston, Massachusetts

November 1774

 

“ONE FINAL KISS, and then we’ll never meet again,” Bess Holloway said. She placed her lips gently on James’s lips, turned and disappeared into the mist.

 

James sat up on his cot. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he remembered: last month they had dismantled the tents on Boston Common to move the 43^rd Regiment of Foot into the newly renovated barracks. He, himself, had repaired the flooring and walls of this room where thirty other privates were snoring. A full moon shone through the one window opposite his bed giving a dim light.

 

The regiment had moved just in time. The night the last tent was packed away, Boston had had its first big snowstorm. Each room had a fireplace, but they did little to dispel the cold during the day, much less at night when fires were banked. One soldier was assigned each night to make sure that the fire wasn’t extinguished.

 

“It would be worse if you were still outdoors, so quit bitching,” Corporal Tilley had told them when the mumbling became louder. Overall, the men liked Tilley. He was demanding but fair. “This is nothing compared to when we fought the French in Canada.”

 

A soldier on his way to the pee pots in a room outside the door tripped, mumbled something and continued on his way.

 

James wondered if it was worth it to get out of his bed to piss and decided no.

 

Strange, he hadn’t dreamed about Bess for weeks. When she first died, he hated falling asleep. He would have nightly nightmares about her death. Then they had tapered off to maybe two or three a week until he joined the army.

 

He had not expected her to die in childbirth, or as in her case, a few days after, when a fever overcame her. Not that death in childbirth was unusual. If women had enough children, chances were that one of their births would surely kill them. But Bess was just eighteen and strong. She seldom even had a cold.

 

In the beginning he thought his first child would be his last. The pain was so great at losing Bess, he had no interest in women. Going through the misery twice was beyond his imagination, but now he wondered if maybe sometime in the future, if he could find the right woman, he might try again to create a family.

 

Bess and he had been friends as teenagers. They were friends after they became lovers. She was his protector, his sounding board. She was quick to jump in the river on a hot day, fully clothed, teasing him to join her. They would walk hand in hand in the moonlight on a summer night and sometimes make love when they were far enough from the village not to be caught.

 

He thought of her last words to him, barely audible. “Miss me but be happy. Live the life I won’t have.” She hadn’t said anything about him finding another wife, but she hadn’t said anything against it. Was having a woman in his life part of being happy? He supposed it depended on the woman. Trying to find a wife like Bess, well that would be difficult.

 

It might not be terrible to have a female friend. He had always enjoyed the company of women, unlike many of his friends who felt women were good for keeping house and meeting their needs in bed or a haystack and not much more.

 

It might be because he and his sisters had always gotten along with just a few sibling spats. James would be the first to admit his sisters spoiled him. Because they were so much older, they treated him as their pet. When they’d married and moved, he missed the sweets they would sneak him. He definitely missed their protection from William.

 

Bess and he had been in school together. She played with boys more than girls and could roll a hoop better than anyone else.

 

She was fun to talk to, never resorting to silly giggles. Their marriage was taken for granted by both sets of parents.

 

If she hadn’t died, he probably would still be putting faggots in the bread-baking oven. Their son might have a baby brother or sister.

 

This was his first Bess dream since arriving from England and in it he felt she was saying goodbye. His old life was fading.

 

His current life didn’t seem real, and he had no idea what his future would hold in two, three, five years. He did know it wouldn’t be the army, although he had few regrets about being a soldier. For now.

 

James changed from his right to his left side, pulling the covers to his neck. Sally Brewster stomped into his mind.

 

She was the daughter of the leather bucket maker. He had first seen her in early October taking in the fire buckets on display outside her father’s shop at the closing of the business day. She’d been talking with a woman, whom James later learned was a neighbor.

 

He had been on an errand for Mrs. Gage. “Pick up a package for me,” she’d said and handed him an address for a dressmaker.

 

Mrs. Gage could afford a dressmaker, but many of the locals were suffering under the new economic conditions instituted by the government, an ongoing punishment. New clothes were not affordable. The army never seemed to be deprived of anything unlike the locals who couldn’t requisition whatever they wanted.

 

James considered this unfair. He kept his opinions to himself. He didn’t hear any other soldier admitting to being an oppressor. Whether, like him, they remained silent, he had no way of knowing. None of the soldiers talked about why they were there and if it was a good or bad thing.

 

James was amazed that he felt drawn to Sally. It wasn’t that she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen, although she was pretty with blond curls escaping her cap. Her face was a little on the round side. What drew him were her blue eyes, not so much the color, but the way they seemed to hide secrets. He told himself that it was his imagination, but he found himself going by her father’s shop every chance he could.

 

There were two bucket makers in Boston. Most families kept a bucket by their door in case of fire in their house or others. The men of the household could grab it when an alarm sounded and rush to help extinguish the blaze before it spread. The buckets came in a variety of shapes, some more cylindrical than others. Some were narrow. James thought they couldn’t hold much water.

 

Brewster’s buckets, unlike those of his competitor William Turner, were decorated, mostly by Sally. Some were simple geometric designs. Some had names of the buyer-to-be or the name Brewster. A few depicted rural scenes or paintings of local buildings like Faneuil Hall. Others had scenes of the buckets being used to put out a house fire.

 

Three days ago as he stood looking at them, a voice said, “Probably the buckets are a signal to the Sons of Liberty that there’s a meeting.” He turned to see Corporal Tilley.

 

“We’re sure the father was involved in throwing the tea in the harbor both times, but we can’t prove it.”

 

James shrugged as Sally Brewster came out of the shop to carry more of the buckets inside. “What if I pay attention to the daughter to gather information?” He was amazed that he thought of the suggestion, much less making it.

 

James rolled over on his cot and tried to put his thoughts of Bess, Sally, Sons of Liberty, and Corporal Tilley aside. He could not get comfortable. Tomorrow, the General needed him an hour early.

Chapter 33

Boston, Massachusetts

December1774

 

JAMES HOLLOWAY BOUNDED up the nine steps and stood between the two pillars of the four-story Governor’s mansion on Marlborough* Street. At a little after eight in the morning, he was early.

 

Surprisingly, Mrs. Gage answered his knock and said, “He’s in the study.” Usually, the maid answered. Maybe Mrs. Gage had been nearby when he’d knocked.

 

He brushed the snow from his coat and took off his boots outside before stepping into the entrance way. Mrs. Gage provided slippers for visitors rather than have mud tracked on the oriental rugs that covered the highly polished floors.

 

He had been told the night before that they would be working in Boston for the next few days. Even better, it would be out of the Governor’s mansion on Marlborough Street,* which pleased him.

 

James was getting used to the richness of the mansion. Roaring fires burned in the fireplaces in occupied rooms. Chairs and couches were well-padded, except those around a table or near a desk. These would be highly polished with cloth-covered cushions. The fabric was often silk or high-quality cotton. Many were embroidered.

 

Mrs. Gage handed James’s coat to Beth, the maid, who carried it to an unknown destination. James knew even if he left in half an hour, it would have been dried.

 

“I’ll send up another pot of tea to warm you. Some toast too?”

 

“But …”

 

“Don’t worry about the General. I’ll send some for him too. He’ll be hungry by now, since he didn’t stop for breakfast.”

*****

James found General Gage wearing a robe over his civilian pants and shirt. His wig was on a wooden faceless head on a table behind his desk. Not much light escaped through the part of the thick window glass that wasn’t covered with drapes so dark green they looked black.

 

A second tabletop to the left of the heavy mahogany desk was invisible. Maps of Salem, Watertown, Arlington, Lexington and Concord covered every bit of the wooden top. The detail included the names of the people who owned the houses sketched along the named streets. Other maps showed major routes and minor paths, north, south, east and west.

 

James had been instrumental in collecting the maps from the people who had been commissioned to draw them. When each map was brought to him, the General sent a soldier with the map to the area drawn to check the accuracy. “I can’t risk losing a battle over bad information, if it comes down to a battle,” he’d said to James. “I hope it never comes to that.”  When mentioning a possible battle, Gage almost always voiced his dislike of the violence.

 

That he shared his opinions so often with someone of private rank amazed James. He supposed that the General needed to talk to someone. If he talked to other officers or to members of the Council, things were repeated, sometimes accurately, but more often than not, twisted to fit different political agendas.

 

In the time he had worked for the General, James had learned the General was stubborn. His mind could be changed but the amount of the information it took to do so was  vast. For example, the General would never consider that the local population might have legitimate reasons for their actions.

 

He’d heard Mrs. Gage at least twice try to present the locals’ point of view. Each time the General had brushed an imaginary crumb from his sleeve along with her opinion. There was no room in his mind for anything other than it was the army’s job to eliminate all thoughts of rebellion no matter how small.

 

What had shocked James was how the men around the General jockeyed for their own positions. He wondered if the King’s Court was the same. Maybe the rebellious Sons of Liberty fought among themselves even though the General referred to them as a unified body, couldn’t they have their own squabbles?

 

“I trust you, James,” General Gage said. “Can you ask my wife to have some tea sent up for two people?”

 

“It is not a difficult assignment, although I appreciate your trust, Sir. Getting tea.” He had learned that he had some leeway in speaking with the General.

 

This was one of those times because the General smiled. “Don’t be cheeky.”

 

“I didn’t mean to be, Sir. I met her in the hall. She said she was sending us tea.”

 

“No, not just for us. For Dr. Benjamin Church. He’s expected any minute. You can take your tea with us. I want your opinion of Dr. Church.”

 

The General wants my opinion? Good Lord, James thought. “Isn’t Church a member of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress?”

 

“James, that’s why I talk with you. If I walked into the mess of the 43^rd and asked everyone eating, who is Dr. Church, I bet one or two at the most, and if that, would know the name. How did you?”

 

“I read it in the Boston Gazette.”

 

“Set it down, please,” the General said. “Over there.” He pointed to a small side table. “And then go and prepare another tray for three. Tea, nothing else. We’ll take it in the reception room, not here.”

 

The tea and toast looked inviting. James had missed breakfast in his rush to get to work. He did not want to eat and drink before the General started. He found their relationship a strange combination of army ritual and an almost comradeship. He had no idea why it was like it was. He was less sure how to handle it other than constantly saying, “Yes, Sir.”

 

“Eat, eat,” the General said. “Then prepare the reception area. I want Dr. Church to feel comfortable. Make sure that the softer chairs are around the small round table. On second thought, I don’t want him too comfortable. Use wooden chairs. Remove the cushions.”

 

The strawberry jam was sweetened with honey. Sugar was in short supply even for the elite. James consumed the toast in three bites. At least the tea had cooled during the trip from the kitchen. “Do you want any papers for the meeting?”

 

The General rubbed his chin and was silent for a minute. “Excuse me. My mind is in many places today. This meeting with Church. The Provincial Council are nothing but trouble. The lack of taxes being collected. And most important, I still need to find those frigging cannons. I will never understand how two cannons can be stolen during the day and from under our noses.”

 

“It was strange, Sir. Broad daylight as we were drilling.”

“That was September. This is December. I’d think someone would have seen them.”

 

“Not for lack of searching, Sir.”

 

“It keeps me up, James, it really does. When Dr. Church gets here, please don’t keep him waiting. On second thought, ’s keep him waiting, and we’ll serve him cold tea.”

 

*Marlborough Street is now Province. The Governor’s Mansion was torn down in 1922.

 

Writer's Block

Writer's Block was written in 2005 but it still holds true. I was the author of a series of articles for a writer's magazine as well as sending the articles in a newsletter to writers all over the world under the name W3 Wise Words on Writing.

THEORY

Writers who claim writers block doesn’t exist, never had it. Those who have spent days, weeks, and months not being able to put their thoughts down on paper, know it exists.

There isn’t a writer in the world who hasn’t, at least one time or another, had problems finding the right word or idea. It's not a full-fledged writer's block, but it is frustrating.

Those who write for newspapers, corporations or do other commercial writing cannot tell their bosses that they are blocked. Produce or get fired.

However, fiction writers have the “luxury” of being blocked.
For the sake of this article let’s define writers block as a prolonged period of not being able to produce satisfactory writing.

Sometimes in life writing is impossible: depression, times of personal tragedy, exhaustion from over work, great stress from outside sources, family problems, are all reasons for writers block, although some people take refuge in writing during these times. For others, writing becomes impossible.

Writers tend to lack confidence to start with, so any slowness in producing the quality of work they desire, can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I didn’t write well yesterday, I won’t write well today or tomorrow. Panic follows.

What are some of the things to correct writers block. I will divide it into two parts. One is avoidance of writing totally. You run from paper, pencil, computer. The second is what to do when you sit with pen or keyboard in hand and then freeze.

AVOIDING WRITING COMPLETELY

1. Examine what is going in your life. If it is a bad period accept it and live the emotions. It is difficult to work on a comedy if your spouse just walked out on you. (The late Nora Ephron wrote HEARTBURN under exactly that those circumstances making it a great revenge novel.)

2.Take a break. Accept that this won’t be productive and do some of the things that writing has made you postpone, a holiday, paint the house, whatever.

3. Exercise that allows thinking time, walking, running on a tread mill, biking.

4. Talk to others who have had the same problem.

5. Socialize with people that will stimulate ideas.

6. Go to a movie, play, museum to stimulate yourself.

7. Do something totally different from your normal activities.

8. Be flexible. This is not the time for rigid writing schedules or forced discipline. It is a guaranteed set up for failure.

FREEZING UP WHEN WRITING

1. Make a list of things you might want to write, or things you don’t want to write about

2. Copy something you wrote before.

3. Copy something your favorite writer wrote.

4. Make a mind map which is a diagram which visually organizes information .Write a word in the center of a page. Draw a line and add a related thought. Continue the process to show relationships among pieces of the whole. https://www.designorate.com/how-to-use-mind-mapping/ has more information.

 
You don’t have to have a plot, you could do it on planning a party, a sporting event, etc. Just make sure you keep your pen moving.

5. Free write. Put your pen to paper or your hand to your keyboard and write anything, no matter how nonsensical. Example: James smiled but why because he wanted to but why should he and that’s stupid stupid stupid stupid…etc.

6. Edit something you wrote earlier.

7. Edit something another writer wrote.

8. Write about your writers block.

9. Tape yourself talking. Talk about writers block or anything else that is important to you.

10. Read about writers block.

11. Talk with other writers who have suffered from writers block.

12. Draw no matter how limited your drawing talent is. There is something in the act of drawing that works well with writing.

13. Get some clay and work with it.

14. Give yourself permission to write badly.

If anyone had any other ideas, I would love to hear them.

EXAMPLES

All selections are by Anne Lamott’s BIRD BY BIRD, a book every writer should read.

“Writers block is going to happen to you. You will read what little you’ve written lately and see with absolutely clarity that it is total dog shit…We have all been there, and it feels like the end of the world. It’s a little like a chickadee being hit by an H-bomb.” Here she says suffers of writers block are not alone.

When you don’t know what else to do, when you’re really stuck and filled with despair and self-loathing and boredom, but you can’t just leave your work alone for a while and wait, you might try telling part of your history—part of a character’s history—in the form of a letter. The letter’s informality just might free you from the tyranny of perfectionism.” Here she makes a suggestion what to do.

“All good stories are out there waiting to be told in a fresh wild way. Mark Twain said that Adam was the only man who, when he said a good thing, knew that nobody had said it before. Life is like a recycling center, where all the concerns and dramas of humankind were recycled back and forth across the universe. But what you have to offer is your own sensibility, maybe your own sense of humor or insider pathos of meaning. All of us can sing the same song, and there will still be four billion different renditions.” Here she encourages our own voices.

She talks to her writing students. “But I also tell them that sometimes when my writer friends are working, they feel better and more alive than they do at any other time. And sometimes when they are writing well, the feel that they are living up to something. It is as if the right words, the true words, are already inside them and they just want to help them get out. Writing this way is a little like milking a cow: The milk is so rich and delicious and the cow is glad you did it.” And this is the ultimate goal that we strive to reach, but like the perfect game of golf, it happens rarely. Just be glad when it does.

EXERCISES

1. Write a letter to your favorite character in a book commenting on something they did. Make suggestions on how the could do it differently.

2. Start with this phrase and write for ten minutes – don’t let your pen leave the paper or your fingers the key board – The rain made the red tiles glisten when…

3. Sit somewhere outside your home and list as many details as you notice around. Limit it—for example if it is a café list what is on the table. Then describe each of those lists in great detail. Don’t worry if it is well written or not, you are just doing description.

4. Think of someone you knew in high school and didn’t like. Write three paragraphs about what you think happened to that person.

An Icicle as a lesson

 

Coming from New England, icicles were nothing unusual. From December through March they decorated our house, barn and trees. It was more a so what situation or at best a reminder to bundle up when going out.

Then this week, I saw a photo on Facebook of an icicle taken by Lars Deutschlaender, the husband of a woman whose friendship I value highly.  

Like most people I will ride by places regularly and only when I walk by those same places do I notice things that have been there for years. Things I might find interesting or given me pleasure.

As a writer and as a human I'm making an attempt to notice more. Too much time in my life has been wasted ignoring things that could enhance my life. It's one reason I won't leave my mobile phone on or look at it when there is anything else at all to do. It steals bits and pieces of my life when I do.

This icicle with its lines, almost bubbles, colors increased my happiness for the day. I thought of it again when I was in a flower shop and there was an purple orchid that looked as if it had been sprinkled with sugar. Maybe I would have noticed the sprinkled orchid if I hadn't seen the icicle photo, but I believe the photo had changed my awareness of things around me that day. 

If I turn the photo on its side, I can imagine it as a frozen landscape. I can create characters living in a cabin, putting logs on the fire. To date I haven't written a flash fiction piece about it, but it is on the list.

At the very least, that photo has made my eyes happy.

I think of the Judy Collins song, "Both Sides Now."

I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all

I listened to the song on YouTube adding to the pleasure of my day. Again I thanked the icicle. 

I really don't know icicles at all, but now I know them a bit more, thanks to one photo.

On my daughter's birthday

 

This is my daughter's birthday. She is in Norway hoping to see the Northern Lights.

I am celebrating her life in Switzerland where I live. She currently lives in Boston.

What am I celebrating?

The joy of having her in my life all these years. I'm taking out the memories through the years and being thankful for them in every ion of my body.

There are memories of her peeking over her bumper guard in her crib, or walking to look where the toads hang out when she was two.

There is seeing her try new things, succeed in most and pick herself up when she didn't.

Of sitting on the floor in the hallway between our bedrooms in our Riverway Boston condo in discussion on anything under the entire universe.

Of watching her walk across the stage for her Boston Latin School for her high school diploma and in Scotland to get her Masters Degree. She didn't go to her B.A. graduation at Northeastern.

There's the beautiful tapestry calendar she needle pointed for me. It covers the entire back of my couch.

It's our regular Facebook chats.

It's when we do manage to be in the same country, same place at the same time. In Boston we head for Dempsey's for breakfast, in Geneva to the Cafe de Soleil for fondue and in Argeles, any of the cafés. And we share hopes, dreams, worries, laughter...

Were their worries?

We had health issues. Never does she fly when I'm not emotionally in the cockpit to make sure the pilots do the right thing. It's a variation of the worry I had when as a teenager she was late coming home (she almost always called. Pre cell phones, we intercommunicated from time to time. I was also required to phone her if I would be late, and if I failed, she reamed me out).

Is my daughter perfect?

No.

Was I a perfect mother?

Oh no.

Does she run her life as I would run it (which I have no right to do).

Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It is her choices, not mine. I will not steal her life.

Nor do I do things as she might do. It's also my life.

I believe we respect the other and our decisions. I suspect my father felt the same way about my life and he may have more head shaking moments in disbelief than I have with my daughter. 

Being a single mom, even though I had more support emotionally and financially than many, was not easy at times, but I don't think there wasn't a moment I was grateful for her presence in my life.

Happy Birthday Llara. I love you more than you can ever know.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Chapters 30, 31

 In Chapter 30, James is going about his regular duties. In Chapter 31, I try and decide if James is ready for a love live. Previous chapters are on the blog. To buy the book on line or in paperback, check online booksellers.

 

Boston in the mid 1770s

Chapter 30

Boston, Massachusetts

November 1774

 

DUSK WAS SLIPPING into night as James Holloway and Thomas Miller patrolled the area between the Common and the sea. The harbor wind played games with the leaves, picking them up, whirling them in a circle before dropping them, only to repeat the performance. The air smelled salty.

 

The shops were closing. Oil lamps inside the shops shared their light with the outside world. Walking on the sidewalks, whether wood, bricks or dirt, was a challenge when icy. Even when they weren’t slippery, it was easy to trip on a protrusion.

 

Only a few people, mainly women buying the last bits for dinner, were about. They wrapped their shawls tightly against the cold as they made their purchases and rushed home.

 

All privates were required to patrol the city two days or nights a month, something that James could have escaped because of his duties with the General. “If I don’t do my required patrolling duties, it may cause resentment among others in the regiment.”

 

“Excellent spirit, Holloway,” the General had said. “Why don’t you make it a point to do mainly night duty when I have less need of you. Who knows what you might spot?”

 

“Night duty is less popular,” James said. “But I like it.”

 

“Even better.” The General had dismissed James, who left the room smiling. His duties with the General pleased him more and more. The man was fair. He explained what he wanted clearly. The signs posted around the city depicting Gage as the devil didn’t understand the character of the man.

 

Sometimes, a soldier would pay someone to take his tour. Because James let the other soldiers know he was almost always ready to take an extra patrol, he more than tripled his monthly income. There was one caveat. Everyone whom he replaced knew that at the last minute the General could override James’s availability. If any animosity existed, it was directed to the General, not James.

 

Money wasn’t the only reason he did extra patrols. He liked walking around Boston checking houses and shops. When he had a chance, he liked talking to people who were willing to speak with a lobsterback.

 

There was a difference, however. In Ely, people were friendly, happy to buy his bread. Here, he was considered a representative of an adversarial government. The different restrictions on trade, the closing of the harbor, the taxes on stamps, tea and other things made the locals angry. The increased presence of the army only increased that anger. Many saw James as a representative of that government, not an individual.

 

Two nights ago, a man in the Green Dragon where Thomas and James had stopped for a beer, complained to James who’d replied, “You know, the King never consults me on any of this. In fact, he never speaks to me at all.”

 

It brought a laugh. Robert, a local shoemaker and regular at the Green Dragon, said, “Leave him alone. Most of the lobsterbacks are just ordinary men like us.”

 

A discussion on why the men had joined the army followed. At least at the Green Dragon with the regulars, the tension had been lowered. They had some things in common such as the enjoyment of a good beer after a working day. They were all apt to choke on the smoke from the fireplace that failed to draw the way it should.

 

James did notice on the few nights when he did go to the tavern the same certain locals entered and instead of staying downstairs, mounted the staircase to the right of the bar. He seldom saw them leave, although periodically one returned for beers for all.

 

He didn’t know their names. He mentioned it to Corporal Tilley, who didn’t think it was important, but James thought he should still pay attention. He wrote down the nights the men were there and their descriptions. It wasn’t complete because he didn’t go to the Green Dragon all that often.

 

He thought if Tilley wasn’t interested, probably the General would be, even if the General had his own spy network. He was right.

 

Thomas and James were less than thirty minutes into their tour. As they passed the lighted gas lamp on the top of Beacon Hill, a boy, probably no more than eight or nine, threw a rock. It hit James’ left shoulder blade. He turned to see the child run down Treamount Street and into an alley.

 

Thomas started to run after him.

 

“Let him go.” James ran after Thomas and grabbed him by the shoulder.

 

“Why should I?”

 

“Beating up a child will win us no friends.”

 

“They don’t want to be friends. They hate us. See how they act. Women sweeping their walks go inside and slam their doors when they see us. Shopkeepers turn their back pretending to adjusting wares already arranged. Prices are higher for us than locals.”

 

James was tempted to say, “I want them to realize we aren’t all that bad.” He knew, that although he considered Thomas a good friend, Thomas was not a person of strong feelings. He believed whatever he heard last.

 

Thomas reached up and removed James’ hand. He turned to look Thomas in the eye. They were exactly the same height. “It isn’t us as individuals. It’s the King. And taxes. And the damned rabble-rousers that keep telling them we’re the cause of their problems.”

 

“So? We should let a ruffian attack us?” Thomas asked.

 

“He’s a child. I would rather try to make the locals not think of us as enemies.”

 

“It seems useless to me.”

 

“I’m making progress with some.”

“Who?” Thomas’ tone still sounded upset.

 

“Henry Samson,” James said.

 

“The fishmonger? That’s a joke. He’s a Son of Liberty; I’m sure of it.”

 

“And there’s Edward Clark.” James didn’t want to point out that the cloth merchant was heard bitching in the Green Dragon that since the new tariffs were issued, he could neither afford the wools from England nor the silks from France. Like many locals, he bitched until they realized lobsterbacks were nearby. Then they shut up.

 

“Clark and Samson are both on the watch list,” James said. “We can watch them better if we’re friendly.”

 

Thomas snorted.

 

They approached the building where the Boston Gazette and Country Journal was printed. “I want a copy of the Gazette. They’re still open.” James tried to buy every weekly edition of the paper.

 

Most of the soldiers in his regiment didn’t care about what was going on in the city. Many couldn’t read or could barely read. They only did whatever drills the officers wanted, they cleaned what they were told to clean, marched when ordered to, went on patrol when given no choice. At night they might play cards or go to an inn for food and drink.

 

James always bought the paper directly from Benjamin Edes, the editor, in the tiny printshop. He had asked Edes to tell him about the paper. 

Although Edes claimed no love of the British army in “my city,” he was willing to brag about the paper to a British soldier. “We’ve been publishing since the early 1700s.” His pride extended to his modern printing press taking up twenty-five percent of the print shop. Even though James had never been in the shop when the paper was being printed, the smell of ink and hot metal lingered.

 

One of the lieutenants had seen James reading the paper in the barracks where they were now garrisoned none too soon as the cold moved in. The tents had been taken down and stored in the basement of the warehouse for use when needed.

 

Troublemakers,” the lieutenant said. “Adams and Revere write for that damned paper. Never mind all the anti-royal editorials. Why do you bother with this garbage, Private?”

 

“I like to know what they’re thinking, Sir.”

 

“Hmm.” The lieutenant walked away.

 

The first time James tried to buy a paper, Edes had refused to sell him one.

 

“I can go down the street and get one,” James had said. “Better you get the full price.”

 

“A smart one, you are,” Edes had said.

 

“Not so much, but I do like to read the news.”

 

The two men had a ritual now where Edes would start, “So what do you want now, Lobsterback?”

 

“What do you think? I read about …” James would mention a story from the previous edition, “… and I wondered if there was anything new.”

 

They had reached the stage where they would nod at one another in the Green Dragon. Two nights ago when there had been no free seats except at the table where Edes was sitting, James walked over and sat.

 

All talk had stopped.

 

“Go ahead. Continue to plan how you’re going to attack us. I need to take some information back to my commander.” He’d smiled. The men at the table exchanged looks than laughed.

 

It had begun to snow by the time Thomas and James entered the print shop. There was another local with his back to the door, talking to Edes. James thought he was one of the men he’d seen going upstairs at the Green Dragon. He wasn’t sure.

 

“The powder will be easy to move. It’s the …”

Edes, who had seen the two lobsterbacks enter, frowned. “Well, the powdery snow is a lot easy to shovel than the heavy stuff.” He stepped to one side of the other man. “Can I help you, Lobsterback?”

 

The other man turned and brushed past Thomas and James, keeping his head down without saying goodbye.  “Just a paper as usual.”

 

Chapter 31

Geneva, Switzerland

 

WE ARE IN quarantine in Geneva for ten days after driving up from Argelès because our area of southern France has too many people with Covid. Annoying, as we are vaccinated and have passed a test right before changing countries. At the same time, it means more concentrated writing time for my husband and me.

 

As for my dog, I’m sure he wishes we go to his favorite places such as the ruin of a 13^th century château and the fields behind the elementary school. He’ll have to be content with the garden.

 

I’m still undecided about creating a serious love interest for James. He’s a young widower who loved his wife and who had been a friend to him too. His grief is waning but has not disappeared to a point he might want to replace her.

 

He doesn’t need a wife to help with his work. He doesn’t need someone to keep his house or raise his children. On private pay, keeping a wife might be difficult even if she were the type of wife that would maintain a stall outside the barracks and sell things that the soldiers would buy. When I read about these stands’ , I thought that it was like an early PX.

 

If I were to continue James’s life four or five years in the future, after he left the army and established himself in some kind of business, which he is planning or least thinking about, it would be different. I am not planning to do that.

 

How much chance British soldiers would have with local women was probably limited. Not surprising because many considered the troops’ presence an occupation.

 

Boston had a brothel that serviced locals, soldiers, and before the harbor was blocked, sailors from all over the world. I didn’t want James to frequent them, because it didn’t fit his character. Because of his seriousness and his wanting to create a life after the army, I wanted him to save money rather than blow it on whores.

 

I want James to flirt with the widow Mollie Clark, the Benjamin Edes’ daughter and Boston Gazette publisher, a paper totally on the side of the colonists. I can delve into some real issues and events that way. Mollie’s father would not like his daughter, who worked with him, to be involved with a lobsterback even if he enjoyed bantering with James.

 

I’m thinking of having Sally Brewster, the daughter of the leather bucket maker and an artist, as a possible love interest. The idea of leather buckets adds color and a peek into colonial life.

 

Despite the concept of puritans, hormones among the young were no different than the young today. One article I read claimed that in about fifty percent of the marriages, the bride was already pregnant. I rejected the idea of James getting Mollie or Sally pregnant. Too romancey.

 

James and I are becoming better and better friends. He has above-average intelligence and is charismatic. I wonder how he would do in 21^st century life. People respond well to him, older women, young women, even men. General Gage recognized his intelligence as well as his reading and writing abilities and takes advantage of them.

 

Having James dream more and more is another way to show his feelings.