Chapter One, Pages 5-7
As I complete writing my second
novel, “Alsoomse and Wanchese,” I think back six years to when I was about to
have my first historical novel, “Crossing the River,” printed. I knew little then about the ins and outs of
print-on-demand publication and self-promotion of product. One piece of advice
I followed was to create and maintain this blog site. ( I have appreciated considerably
your interest)
The hardest part of sales of one’s
product is getting the general public to know it exists. To date, a majority of the purchasers of
“Crossing the River” have been people who know me. Stranger are much harder to reach. Book
reviews, which can be found on amazon.com, helped. So did my postings on
goodreads.com. I would like to think that what I have presented on this blog
site has also helped.
Because the contents of this novel
are historically accurate, three years ago I emailed to well over one hundred
high schools (mostly in Oregon) free pdf copies that American history teachers
could use as they saw fit – a different attempt by me to proclaim the book’s
existence. One teacher bought
immediately a paperback copy. A year ago
somebody bought 27 paperback copies, that person, I assume, being a teacher who
wanted a classroom set.
I haven’t attempted to promote this
book recently. I want to now. I don’t want it to pass into total
oblivion. What is true about the
perceptions and actions of participants in the Battles of Lexington
and Concord and the British army’s retreat back
to Charlestown and Boston
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eeling his wife's hand
on his right shoulder, MacKenzie put down his quill.
“You laugh,” she teased.
Closing his eyes, he placed the back of his head against her
enlarged abdomen.
“You
are a sober sides, husband,” she said, cupping his right ear. “Pray that your
soldiers hear you guffaw … on occasion.”
“Pah! Twould be the regiment’s ruination!”
“Lieutenant
Frederick Mackenzie, 23rd Welsh Fusiliers Regiment of Foot,” she mocked.
“Lieutenant Discipline. Though at times, … devoted father.”
“At
all times.”
“Would
that the soldier with dirty cross belts receive such devotion.”
He
chuckled.
“The
proof, dear husband, is not to be found in your words but in your actions. Your
daughters demand your attention.” She
tapped his left shoulder.
He
secured her forearm. He stroked it. As vivacious and radiant as when he had
courted her, she was his counterweight to what with rare exception had been a
tedious existence. “But a few minutes more, my dear,” he responded. “To order
my thoughts.” Enjoying her close proximity, he gazed at the half-filled page of
his journal.
“Ill-formed
words, Frederick
“Ill-forged
mind?”
“Orderly mind. You should not interrupt.
Wiggly words I should have said. Pray what has aroused your humor? I must
preserve it. Store it in a bottle.”
Face
beaming, he pointed at his compressed lips.
“Speak, chuff cove! Do not make sport
with me!” To observe him better, she walked half way around his desk.
He
touched the folded dispatch beside his journal. “General Gage inquires if there
are officers with drawing experience that would make sketches of the countryside.”
He studied her expression.
“Why
is that … basis for mirth?” The skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled.
“Tis
not his words, my dear, but his intentions that I find amusing.”
“General
Gage would enjoy your description of his intentions.”
“I
will not provide him the opportunity.” He smiled, wryly. “You have misconstrued
my meaning. His intention, to find somebody to ‘sketch the countryside,’ is
reasonable. What amuses me is what he tries in this dispatch to hide.”
“Oh?
And what, Mister Constable,” she said merrily, “is that?” She was surprised at
his change of expression.
“Something
rather dangerous actually. For those who volunteer.”
“Indeed.”
“He
wants officers that will map roads and bridges to Worcester
and just as probably Concord
“And
you?” she asked, after a lengthy pause.
“Not
I.”
She
maintained her doubting look. He felt a rush of temper.
“I
sketch what interests me. As you well know,” he said, gruffly. “I am not a
young whelp. I have you and our family and our future child to factor. I’ll not
be risking my neck and your welfare to play at spying!”
“That
is a comfort.”
“Somebody
else, somebody reckless, will!” He touched his eyelids, blinked, tapped with an
index finger his blotter. “You needn’t worry,” he said, less aggressively. “The
General will having lean pickings. He
should be the one to worry, not you.”
Neither
her head, her arms, nor her hands moved. “Why does he want maps of roads and
bridges?”
He
scowled. “To know what obstacles lay before him when he sends foot soldiers. Nancy
He
watched her dissect his words.
At
length she asked, “Will they fight?”
“Who?”
“The
provincials! Your friends believe they’re cowards. Will they?”
“Have
they not made preparations to?”
She
studied him a full five seconds. “Attend your daughters when you deem it
convenient,” she said. Averting her face, she left the room.
It
was her accustomed way to punishing him.
Knowing
that she expected him to follow, he stared, resentfully, at his written words.
“January 8, 1775. It has been signified to
the Army, that if any officers of the different regiments are capable to taking
sketches of a country, they are to send their names to the Deputy-Adjutant
General.”
“Will
they fight?” She had gotten to the heart of it.
Angry
commoners in the Boston Boston
Nevertheless, Gage's
spies would operate at great risk. The General would do well not to select
officers motivated by the desire for promotion, or fire brands ablaze for
adventure. Who else but the reckless or the ambitious would apply? Gage needed
experienced officers possessing wisdom, judgment. He would not get them. Utilizing
those attributes, they would decline to volunteer.
As
for the ability to draw maps, “I am afraid,” MacKenzie wrote, “not many
officers of this Army will be found qualified for this service. It is a branch
of Military education too little attended to, or sought by our officers, and
yet is not only extremely necessary and useful in time of war, but very
entertaining and instructive.”
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