Bells

Hey, guys! Well, I haven't posted a new story in a while. I really need a lot of help with this one, mostly with characterzation, plot, grammar, etc. I'm mainly curious what you guys think of the characters and the plot so far but any feedback would be great. I also started writing a little about this story in the Writer's Corner. Thanks, and I hope it's not too boring; I'm a little out of practice too.

Bells
Jessica Bruce



The people were all-powerful tonight in the wintery hours of March.

Two Celts – a Patrick Carr and a Benjamin Burdick – were prepared to march out to King Street and meet their foe. Carr, who lived with his employer, a leather-breeches maker, snatched a small hanger and tucked it carefully under his coat, thus concealing the weapon. He turned in the direction of the door but before his right hand could touch the knob, Mister Field, a frequent customer, barged into the building. Stout and short, he stood five feet in height. Not in the least interested in business affairs, he attempted to sidestep Mister Field.

“Excuse me…” He held up a pair of breeches. The seams were torn along both sides of the waist region.

“Out of my way,” Carr growled impatiently in his Irish twang. “Ye have already have gone through a third pair this week.”

Again Carr tried to make his way to the doorknob except Mister Field saw this and stepped in front of him. He collided into Carr’s left hipbone and cursed.

Mister Field rubbed his forehead and pointed to his chest. “What unholy sort do you possess in that coat of yours?” he frowned. “Steel?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Now, move.” He grabbed the tiny man in both arms and shoved him roughly to the side. “You are delaying me of my purpose,” he grumbled.

“To kill?” Mister Field asked meekly.

Carr cocked an eyebrow and studied him curiously. Mister Field’s head had dropped and it faced the floorboards. He was twiddling his thumbs.

“Why must ye know?”

“Leave it here.”

“Sir, ye know – “

His shot his head up and he glared angrily at Carr. “I know a mistake when I see it! It will serve you no purpose.”

Carr, with his hand on the doorknob, stood and thought over the proposal for a few minutes. It did not take long for him to settle on a decision and he reached inside his great coat, combed around for the leather scabbard that was tucked in his breeches. When he located it, he presented the scabbard.

At first, Mister Field’s eyes were wide but he frowned shortly after. Carr tossed the scabbard at him. He instinctively held his hands outward and caught it.

“May it be better use to ye,” and then Carr walked outside.
___



“Wait,” his wife called from her seat as she sat on the chair.

Benjamin Burdick halted in mid-step under the foyer. Broad shouldered and barrel-chested, he slid his arm up the wall to support his weight as he leaned heavily to his right side. “Hmm?” he asked questionably and then cocked an eyebrow.

“Why should you be so eager to go?”

“Why should I not be?” Burdick grumbled.

“May I remind you of the incident prior to your own involvement? There is bit of a sore spot inside you.”

Burdick huffed. “What are ye squabblin’ about now? Involvement in what?”

His wife sniffed. “Surely, you have not forgotten?”

“Ex-plain,” he said through gritted teeth.

She turned up her nose and waved the back of her hand.

“Please?” he asked in a slightly kinder tone.

“Your mannerisms need improvement upon, Benjamin, but – Close your mouth, and listen,” she interrupted him. “Do you not recall a particular ropemaker a few months before?”

He pulled himself away from his position against the wall, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Several minutes had passed as he still pondered.

“Do ye mean that one fellow that believed a soldier was doggin’ him?” he asked finally in a pleasant voice.

His wife nodded. “There is more if you know it.”

Burdick casted his memory backwards and thought a bit longer.

“This ropemaker requested your personal assistance. Our door was ajar. I saw plainly as you spoke rather loud-pitched to the lad. I heard you say to him that you would keep watch.”

“I recall but what of it?”

“The next day, that same soldier returned to our home and –“

“And I went outside to see about his lurking. I had asked what was he after. He replied, ‘Pumping shit.’ I replied on my own, and told him to march off. The soldier than growled at me like a dog would and said, ‘Damn you.’”

“Proceed.”

Burdick shrugged. “Ye know the rest. Why should I be compelled to answer?”

“It is why I inquired earlier about your being so prompted to leave. He might have deserved the beating but Benjamin, do take into account that you broke that soldier’s arm and caused him to limp terribly.”

“I do not understand.”

His wife sighed deeply and let her head fall. She closed her eyes and rubbed them counter-clockwise.

Burdick walked slowly and placed his right hand gently on top of her shoulder. With his thumb, he tucked it under her chin and lifted. His wife obeyed and raised her head but her lips were pursed into a straight line.

“Do you not hear them?” she asked softly. “The windows are shut, yet we can plainly hear them.”

“It is way I must leave,” Burdick answered immediately.

“It is not fire, it is an affray in King Street. If you are going, take this,” she said, and pointed to the round table that seated two. It was in the center of the room. “If conflict should follow you once more, at least be prepared.”

He studied his wife’s uncertain expression but nodded in agreement. Burdick walked briskly to the table where the object he sought lied. There was paper on top of it. Disorderly, the pages were torn letters from his wife’s family in Connecticut; they did not approve with the rebellious nature of her husband’s actions against the King, and a few wrinkled corners of the Boston Gazette, and Country
Journal showed. He picked up his highland basket-hilted broadsword.

“Never would I dreamed of bringing it with me,” he muttered.

“Hmm?”

Burdick, who clutched the hilt, whirled around to face her. “I said, ‘I never would have considered my sword to be brought out in the public.’”

“Then why is it out in the open?”

“For protection.”

“Perhaps –“

“No,” Burdick said sharply to her.

His wife shook her head and frowned. “I disapprove but I cannot persuade a stubborn man. You should stay.”

Burdick grumbled, and then walked to the door. To his right there were three pegs. He reached, snatched a black bonnet and placed it on his head. Next, he grabbed the leather scabbard, belted it around his trousers and then slipped his sword into the scabbard. Burdick opened the door and before he stepped out, he glanced over his shoulder in her direction. His lips smiled crookedly but his mind remained fixated on his intentions.

‘Fairwell. If I shall not hold ye again… His train of thought stopped. “Meòmhraich,” he said gently to her in Gaelic.

“Remember,” she repeated softly.

With that final word, Benjamin Burdick turned around, walked outside and slammed the door shut behind him. The thunderous echo of voices from King Street greeted his eardrums.

___



Private Hugh White of the Twenty-Ninth Regiment winced and then groaned shortly afterward. He observed the swell of the Bostonians with a fixed but solemn expression. White clutched the top of his Bess tightly but his thumb rubbed the bayonet affixed to it. He wanted to stroke the top of his knee and caress the pain out of his joint where he was struck with a stone but even that simple pleasure was denied to him. He knew he had to remain focused.
Some of the men equipped themselves with rocks or debris found deposited on the frozen ground. Others sought that the situation would be more beneficiary by assembling with lanterns so they might be able to see clearly as possible in the night air. The children sneered and in their tiny palms, they tossed snowballs in short sprits into the air, than caught the frozen weapons, ever ready to release a volley of their own at a moments notice.

“Go back! Be gone with thee! We know your kind and it is not wanted here!” a man in his early forties shouted while he stood in the center of the crowd. He proceeded to raise a fist, shook it angrily, than spat to his left side. A chill in the air forced the man to pull his brown great coat of heavy wool tighter around his chest and tug his tricorn hat farther over the bridge of his nose.

White swallowed and stepped back.

The crowd sensed this opportunity and moved forward, shouting, exchanging insults and curses. White’s back was now snug against the entrance to the Customs House. He briefly glanced up and took immediate notice of the balcony that was above him.

‘Far too ‘igh to climb up, he thought. Too ‘igh indeed if I shall flee for me life!

It only took seconds, precious seconds for that one invaluable moment when Hugh White diverted his attention to the balcony. A snowball was launched and although it missed its red-coated target, it dispersed to the left of him, not far from his shoulder. He jumped a little, taken aback by surprise.

In just over forty-five minutes, twice the mob had attacked him. White reacted instinctively by lowering his Bess slowly. The endpoint of the bayonet faced the people; it challenged them. Challenged the soul who sought an early demise.

“See that?” an elderly man rasped but the rapturous voices drowned his frail tone. Regardless, he continued as if his message was of great importance. He pointed with a shaky, gnarled finger in the general direction of the Granary Burial Grounds. “It is a most fitting place to sleep, knave!”

White, while his ears caught fragments of the bitter messages, he felt his eyes dart wildly from face to face, body to body. He even spotted a rather broad fellow who stood in front and off to the left side of the crowd. Unlike the others, the man did not engage but merely frowned. His vision focused on an object strapped to this man’s waist. It was a sword, a one-hander. The man cocked his head and sneered. White licked his lips and swallowed nervously; his eyes remained fixed on the edged weapon. The man reached to his left side where the hilt was and White reacted by slowly inching his Bess in the man’s direction. Instead, the man readjusted his hat – a bonnet.

“I shall cut your head off!” Benjamin Burdick hollered promptly after he was sure his bonnet would not fall.

Why did I want to be ‘ear ‘lone at this post? he grumbled in his thick accent. Why cannot they see I mean no ‘arm? A simple man ‘ear to restore orda. Captain Preston shall –

“Back! All of you! ‘Ep back!” White bellowed.

As the citizens of Boston breathed fire and brimstone, the group encircled Private Hugh White. He was now trapped, encased in a cocoon of magnitude in the highest examples of animosity.
“Are you frighted?” a boy – Christopher Monk called. No one answered him directly or took notice in interest. When Monk realized this, he took his catstick that he had brought him earlier, crouched down and peeked in between the gaps of legs of his fellow Bostonians. He could not see the soldier precisely but when he caught a glimpse of the edge of the bayonet, Monk reacted by grinding his teeth angrily. He brought himself swiftly to his feet and yelled at the top of his lungs, “I remember Seider! He lay in his tomb now because of a red coat!”

Patrick Carr pushed his way through and shoved Monk to his right and a lanky, seventeen-year old adolescent named Samuel Maverick, who stood next to Monk, roughly to his left. Maverick tripped over his foot and fell deep into the sea of faces. Monk lost his balance as well. He fell over backwards and flopped into the snowdrifts, landing on his backside.

Carr scowled. Both men were no more than six inches a part from chest to chest. He let his gut fall out a little and walked forward one step. He glanced down momentarily and flinched. The bayonet grazed his gray waistcoat.

“You! ‘Ep back!” White shouted to him. When he did not comply, White repeated his warning. “Go! Or I will –“

“Or ye what?” Carr challenged, and then snickered.

White did not falter under the threat. He kept the bayonet in the same position.

Carr glanced down at it. He breathed warm air into his palms and casually buttoned up his great coat. When he finished, Carr looked at the bayonet once more. “Kill me will ye?” he grinned.

“Aye, if I must to save me own ‘kin,” White whispered gently to his aggressor.

Bells. There was a new disturbance. Bostonians began ringing bells. They mimicked the sound in which a cowbell sounded.

White swallowed. He reached with his free hand but kept the Bess steady in his right, and wiped the beads of sweat that formed near his brows. He felt his cheeks grow sticky and warm.

Please. I need ‘elp… I wish not to die in so a lonesome place as this. Bring ‘elp, dear God! ‘Elp me!

The bells rung merrily for Private White, plaguing him.

___


Church bells rang. Thunderous. Clanging. The iron clashed together in prefect unison but the bells purpose was not for a joyous ceremony this day. Awakened from their slumber, the church bells chord was chaotic; their purpose was absolute: Arouse citizenry support.

Men were heard up and down King Street where some shouted, “Fire!” even though there was none. They cried loudly for an attack on the Main Guard.

William Jackson touched the top of the young soldier’s shoulder. Lieutenant James Basset, also of the Twenty-Ninth – jumped a little. Both hung in the shadows of a building adjacent from the Customs House, hidden and protected for the moment. Neither wanted to let their presence be known for fear they might join Hugh White’s vile persecution.

Jackson looked at Basset with a frown and grunted.

Basset took the gesture as a fault of his own for he realized he had openly displayed that his nerves were getting the best of him. In response, he straightened out his back to hopefully make himself appear presentable.

Jackson winced. He cocked his head and raked the inside of his ear with his index finger. “These bells are deafening!”

“Preston is lodged at your house?” Basset hollered over the noise.

“My mother’s!”

Basset turned.

“Wait! I shall meet you there!”

Jackson ran in another direction, south of and away from King Street.

He walked briskly, than when he thought he was out of sight from the riot, Basset fled to where Captain Preston lodged himself. Upon the hurry, he glanced over his shoulder to make certain he was not to be followed. Without knowing, Lieutenant Basset collided into a tree. The wind was knocked out of him and he doubled over and inhaled in ragged wisps, trying to catch his breath. Eventually, air returned and he breathed normally again but before he lifted himself, his ears recognized a distinct but familiar sound of wrinkled paper that fluttered in the breeze. He reached down, picked up his battalion hat that fell in the snow and gave it a quick shake. Basset glanced up to the sound that caught his attention and squinted. It took a couple of minutes before his eyes adjusted enough in the dark to decipher the document. He frowned. Nailed to a tree, there was a picture of a snake. Basset stared at it briefly. The snake was cut into distinct segments, and each piece had the initials of one colony that had not united presently against the King. The snake’s mouth was wide open, with its tongue straight outwards. He reached out and traced the direction of each letter with his index finger. J-O-I-N O-R

“Die,” muttered Basset. He shook his head in despair. “I wish it was not read to me.”

A heavy groan escaped his lips. He tore his eyes from the snake, and hurried to meet Captain Preston.

___


Lieutenant Basset burst into the house in a pant. He reached behind, snatched the canteen, brought it to his lips and drank greedily.

“I heard a chorus of bells,” Preston, of the Fourteenth Regiment, said calmly to his young Officer. “Well, do not just stand there. Shut the door. The fire will not last in that wind.”

Basset corked his canteen and let it fall heavily to his left side, leaving the door wide open. “Sir! The sentry!”

“To the roof,” Preston said instantly, pointing up, “to locate the fire.”

He nodded and moved past Preston who was seated in his chair and made his way to the stairs. He was half way up when his Commanding Officer halted him.

“Just a moment,” Preston whispered while he raised his palm up to stop the lad.

“Yes, sir?” Basset asked curiously.

“I heard a voice. Who is –?”

“Captain Preston! I brought half dozen soldiers! Sir, where are –“

“Come forward,” Preston said in an imperious tone.

Basset looked over his shoulder in caught a glimpse of yellow lace around the red, wool cuffs outdoors.
The bottom of their uniforms flapped in the light breeze.

William Jackson stepped inside his mother’s home and bowed when he saw Preston seated in front of a disheveled table. “Your presence is very much needed by the Customs House. A soldier is in grave need of assistance.”

“A Private is encased in an outdoor prison,” Basset mumbled from the fourth step.

Preston stood, belted his sword, and settled his hat just so on top of his wig. As he walked, there was a certain confidence that surrounded him. Perhaps it was simply that Preston’s reputation of his collected nature perceived him still.

Lieutenant Basset walked outdoors first and Captain Preston followed suit close behind.

“I shall stay hear, if it pleases you?” came Jackson’s muffled voice from indoors.
Preston shut the door tightly in response. He brought his arms behind his back, folded his hands and then walked up and down in the snow, studying the line.

“There is a bit of a chill in the air,” Preston muttered to himself.

If any of the soldiers heard the message, they refused to comment.




For near half and hour, Preston walked up and down facing the line. Finally, he halted next to the Lieutenant so that both men overlooked the center body of soldiers. Scratching his left cheek, he felt his fingertips drag along under the folds of skin where age had caused certain areas to sag. He knew his lips frowned but he was unaware just how much. Preston’s expression hardened as well as his brows furrowed so far over, it appeared he had two bushy caterpillars for eyebrows that managed to conceal the very tops of his eyes.

Preston glanced over his right shoulder in the direction of the Customs House. The echoes of the mob had not calmed but rather continued in the same ruckus. He winced in response.

Those bells, was one of the thoughts that penetrated his mind. So angry whilst the people stand barking like wild beasts and those bells fueling their whole angry tones.

Basset who stood at his right side, leaned towards him and whispered, “Sir, what are, are –?” came a muffled tone as he struggled to speak, to get the words clear in his own mind. Preston watched his inexperienced subordinate Officer bring a shaky hand down to his canteen and then raised an eyebrow with concern when he saw Basset having great difficulty bringing it to his lips for a drink. His hand shook too much.


*
(Now, I must be off and go critique four stories. Thanks for reading. )

Two Celts – [s]a[/s] Patrick Carr and [s]a [/s]Benjamin Burdick – were prepared to march out to King Street and meet their foe

You over-write most of this piece, dear Fishy. It doesn't so much stifle flow as hinder it from every starting.

He turned [s]in the direction of[/s] to the door but before his right hand could touch the knob, Mister Field, a frequent customer, barged into the building.

simplicity is key.

“Ye have already [s]have[/s] gone through a third pair this week.”

Awkwardly phrased, even without the repetition. 'Ye have already gone through three pairs this week, leave it alone man.' That last bit is an example, I think, that there needs to be some kind of concluding comment, after stating how many pairs the man has used up.

“You are delaying me of my purpose,” he grumbled.

from

Burdick casted his memory backwards and thought a bit longer.

cast

The soldier than growled at me like a dog would

I'm not terribly good with 'then' and 'than' but I believe in this instance it should be 'then'. Ignore if I'm wrong.

“I do not understand.”

I didn't completely buy most of the conversation between Burdick and his wife, but that in particular felt very stilted and wrong. Kill it.

Burdick walked briskly to the table [s]where the object he sought lied[/s]. There was paper on top of it

Ack, stop over-writing! Unnecessary.

and a few wrinkled corners of the Boston Gazette, and Country
Journal showed.

backspace, italicize Journal.

“Never would I dreamed of bringing it with me,” he muttered.

have

Burdick grumbled, and [s]then[/s] walked to the door.

As I have said to a couple of people now, 'then' is the bane of storytelling action! Let it go.

and then slipped his sword into the scabbard.

I'm reminded of Dude, Where's My Car? And the famous 'And then?' lines. Stop it.

He reached, snatched a black bonnet and placed it on his head.

You don't have to change this bit but I have to reiterate that you don't need to describe every minute motion and intention-of-motion (i.e he went to turn to the door). It kills flow, remember?

Private Hugh White of the Twenty-Ninth Regiment winced and [s]then[/s] groaned [s]shortly afterward.[/s]

Grr. winced and groaned, is sufficient, I assure.

Some of the men equipped themselves with rocks or debris [s]found deposited on the frozen ground.[/s]

You can stop at debris, or if you want continue but thusly: 'with rocks or debris from the frozen ground' but really, where else are they going to get them? It's obvious and unnecessary.

Others sought that the situation would be more beneficiary by assembling with lanterns so they might be able to see

I'm not sure if that's just a ye olde expression there, but is 'sought' meant to be 'thought'?

When Monk realized this, he took his catstick [s]that he had brought him earlier[/s], crouched down and peeked in between the gaps of legs [s]of his fellow Bostonians.[/s]

This piece needs some serious streamlining.

Upon the hurry, he glanced over his shoulder to make certain he was not [s]to be[/s] followed.

Just because the speech was archaic and stilted doesn't mean your prose needs to be.

He reached down, picked up his battalion hat [s]that fell in[/s] from the snow and gave it a quick shake

He reached behind, snatched the canteen,[s] brought it to his lips[/s] and drank greedily.

Again with the describing every motion. One or more of them can be deleted, doesn't necessarily need to be the one I indicated here. Though it should. Ahem.

*

Overall, I found this to be a drag, bogged down in the details. It needs to be freed from so many encumbering sentences and stilted prose - basically, an edit. Ha, I mean the writing is good but as I've said, it's just overdone. I would like it to be a bit messier as well, a bit more haphazard, less focused on the details, on the people and more chaotic. It's almost too detached as it, distances one from the tension you're trying to create. For the most part, its felt, but not as emphatically as it should be.

Hope that helps,

Cheers

Hey, Jiggy!

Thanks for the editing jobber. I knew there were several things "not right" but I just didn't know what. I guess with several months of not writing, I slumped. Yep, there will be editing. This is only the first draft.

Have a few questions for you though.

I would like it to be a bit messier as well, a bit more haphazard, less focused on the details, on the people and more chaotic. It's almost too detached as it, distances one from the tension you're trying to create. For the most part, its felt, but not as emphatically as it should be.

You've mentioned it's overdone; I don't dispute that one at all, haha. But I'm curious. What exactly in your mind is missing in terms of examples of chaos? What examples does it lack I guess is what I'm wondering. How is it detached? I'd like your insight, pweez?

As for Burdick and the conversation with his wife, were you pointing out the dialogue was forced or just not realistic? Both? What about that whole conversation bothered you, made you twitch?

As for the people, they are important, especially when the final showdown happens. I think you mean the story is turning into more of a documentry than actual story? Or am I totally off my rocker?

Again, thanks a lot JJiggy. You helped me quite a bit.
Cheers,
Jess

The soldier than growled at me like a dog would
I'm not terribly good with 'then' and 'than' but I believe in this instance it should be 'then'. Ignore if I'm wrong.

it is then... use then in instances related to time or sequences... Then, i ate a doughnut... ill do that later, then... use than in comparisons and such... i like that better than that... no need to thank me...

Yes, I would say the conversation felt forced. As though it were more for our - the reader's - benefit than it was something they would actually say to one another. You pick up on this yourself when you have Burdick say 'Ye know the rest, why should I be compelled to answer?'

Indeed, why should they be compelled to have the conversation at all? For our benefit, obviously. The conversation is too much of you and not enough of them.

And yes, now that you mention it, there is something about this that feels more like a recitation then it does a fully engaging, separate story. I'm not getting a sense of reliving it, so much as being retold it? Does that make sense? Maybe its all in the conclusion?

It just feels too clinical, too obvious in its set up and composition. Gah, this is terrible, I'm not sure you get my meaning, but hopefully that helps you a little more.

Cheers

Kudos Jiggy. I agree with your insight and opinions because I was thinking of the same situations myself. I just need someone else to see if they agreed or not.

I know you mentioned that the atmosphere was "Pfft!" but keep in mind, what you've read is only the beginning of the Massacre. It's only begun. It didn't go into full motion until Preston brought the line of soldiers to the State (Customs) House. At that point, that is when everything went down the crapper so to speak.

Agreed too with Burdick's speech with his wife. I guess the info dump really served as a blueprint. When I finalized everything and with your help on your awesome editing by finetuning, I'll try and be more subtle with the whole situation.

You mentioned too that the story was overdone and that made me think. I see the story now as being dangerously close to non-fiction but since there are minor factors we do not know and haven't been able to detect, it still falls under historical fiction. The thing is, textbooks whitewash almost every detail and never truly tell you the complete story. Aside from the messiness of my writing at the moment, the basic principles of how the Massacre really played out are there in the plot. I know I might have gone overboard with ranks and the different Regiments but if you had read a simple three pages in your school's texts, I think most people would be displeased they were negated the whole truth.

Anyway, had to ramble, hehehe. Again, your insight and opinions, Juggy were very helpful. If you can think of any more ideas how to improve this story, please bother me? Thanks!

EDIT:

It just feels too clinical, too obvious in its set up and composition.

Well, it IS the Boston Massacre. We already know the basic centerpiece, if you will. British soldiers fired, thinking the command from the Officer, (Preston), shouted, "Fire!" and five people were the targets. So, I'm really not sure what you mean by it being too obvious if the actual events have already been documented. I'm confused with this statement.