Holding the phone in my hand, contemplating my choices, I felt like a coward. I’d always striven to be strong, to prove myself everything Lena wasn’t.
And while I thought I was a fight-over-flight girl, my actions said otherwise.
I texted Ethan’s contact information to Jed. Then I put my phone away, looked out at a Delta plane inching higher and higher into the clear sky.
I dragged in a breath, pushed aside my self-doubt. That was what made me weak. Anything that got in the way of my focus, of putting my country and my training first, of knowing what I was about, was what made me weak.
I’d left. Doubting this tactical move would not help me gain ground or secure my mission goal.
I grabbed my duffel bag and walked past the many gates of people waiting for flights. Anticipating their vacations or business meetings or time with family.
I continued walking.
Away from the plane that had taken me from Boston, away from the chest and Ethan and Lena and Emma and Noah.
I wasn’t running away. I was making a choice. A choice that was necessary in order to be that special breed of warrior, in order to have that uncommon desire to succeed.
Hayley,
I thought you’d like to know what I found at the society today, so I’m e-mailing you the rest of Emma’s story.
Jed called.
These people . . . Noah and Emma . . . they’re your people, Hay. I know you want to search for meaning somewhere far away and off by yourself, but maybe your answers are closer than you think.
Go chase your dreams, but remember, you are not alone.
I am waiting.
Love, Ethan
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Emma
Which is the side that I must go withal?
I am with both; each army hath a hand,
And in their rage—I having hold of both—
They whirl asunder, and dismember me.
MARGARET GAGE, QUOTING SHAKESPEARE’S KING JOHN
I SHOULD HAVE never held him.
The bloodied bundle lay in Sarah’s arms, the cord tied round his neck. “I am so sorry, Emma. . . . Do you want to . . . ?”
I nodded, my body spent from working through the night over the wounded men followed by hours of wasted labor. I knew it had been too soon, and yet I hoped. I held my arms out for my son.
She cleaned him off the best she could, removed the cord, placed the tiny mound in my arms. He was beautiful. Aye, some might consider a babe so small and underdeveloped an ugly thing, but I saw past it all to the child Noah and I had created together.
“Your father would have loved you,” I whispered against slick skin still wet from birth. A sudden sob shook my body, and I wondered if I would be haunted by the weight of this tiny babe in my arms for all my days. ’Twould have been better not to know the still-warm feel of him.
So much death these last two days. So much darkness in a season that surrounded us in light. Was my babe’s death a curse upon me for leaving my parents? Was it simply a result of staying up all night, of witnessing the sights and sounds of so much death? Had it been catching to my babe somehow?
Noah would wonder why I had been so long away from him. And yet when I saw him, I would have to tell him of our sweet son, borne away with the angels.
I asked Sarah to fetch me the soft-yellow blanket within the tea chest that I had made for my child, and I wrapped my babe within its warm folds—so unlike how I’d once imagined.
Sarah took the child away, and I fell into an exhausted sleep, longing for the peace I’d felt in the field hospital, longing for that presence to come alongside me in my suffering. But like my womb, I felt only emptiness.
My babe was buried two days later, alongside a handful of Medford militia. Because we did not allow our dead to cross bodies of water, the majority of the burials were performed in the South burying ground, on the side of Cradock Bridge which held the hospital.
Our little one was buried in the North burying ground beside our church. I stood alone at our wee one’s final resting place when Mary came up to me, a carefully arranged nosegay of wildflowers in her little hands. I knelt down to her height and welcomed the child in my arms, holding her tightly, wishing never to let go.
Noah hadn’t attended the burial. Though Benjamin Hall had fashioned crude walking sticks for him, Dr. Tufts had ordered Noah abed for at least a fortnight, saying if the wound began to bleed again, the risk of infection would be all the greater. When I returned from our son’s burial, I fixed Noah a meal of creamed vegetables and told him I would see what needed to be done in the shop.
He shook his head. “I think we will close the shop for a time, Emma. Just for a time.”
I nodded. “Very well. Whatever you deem best.” I propped a bolster pillow behind him, noticed the new lines on his face. “We will have more children, Noah. I am sure of it.”
I said it for my benefit as much as his. He held his arms out to me and I leaned over, careful not to touch his injured leg as I nestled against his solid chest, so grateful that he showed no sign of fever or infection, yet so cognizant of the impending emptiness that hovered between us, so aware of the awkwardness of not sitting upon his lap as I once had.
“How are you, Emma? You have been through so much . . . You are a strong woman, my wife. Stronger than I realized. I appreciate that, especially now . . .”
I sniffed. “Does it hurt much?”
“Less with a mug of ale or some flip.” He forced a laugh, but I knew he spoke truth, for he was never far from his cup these past two days. I didn’t fault him for it. ’Twould take time, but we would heal. Noah’s leg would soon not hurt quite so much, and someday, though I could not imagine, the ache in my arms would lessen as well.
The night before I’d asked him if he wanted to talk about what happened upon Breed’s Hill, just as we’d spoken of the Concord battle.
And though he’d never raised his voice to me before, I would not soon forget his visible frustration as he tried to settle himself upon our small sofa. His face red, droplets peppering his brow as he held himself up to readjust his lower half, the bandage soaking with blood from the activity. His low growl. “No, I do not wish to talk of it. I do not wish to talk of anything unless it is of the rest of the colonies coming to aid us.”
I heard news of Dr. Warren’s death upon Breed’s Hill from Sarah. I heard of the defeat of our troops, of the massive injury done to the Redcoats. With Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock in Philadelphia, and with the defeat of Bunker Hill still very much a part of our memories, a gloom seemed to hang over us all.
And I tiptoed around my husband and filled his request when his mug became empty of strong drink.
Liberty. ’Twas a strange notion. Noah would be bound to crutches or mayhap a wooden leg for the remainder of his days. Dr. Warren’s children were left orphans. Many a woman was left without a husband, without a son. I hadn’t pondered the full extent of the sacrifices we would be called to make in the name of freedom.
If I tallied them up, I wondered, would it be worth the cost?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Emma
While we are contending for our own liberty, we should be very cautious of violating the rights of conscience in others; ever considering that God alone is the judge of the hearts of men.
GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON
JULY 1775
The provincial army officially became the Continental Army with the arrival in Cambridge of a new leader, sent by the Continental Congress. General George Washington seemed to invigorate the raw and ragged troops around Boston, even as the conditions in Medford grew bleak.
Refugees from Boston and burned-down Charlestown poured into our town. Rumors flew that General Gage was evicting those crippled with smallpox into provincial territory. A smokehouse just south of Sarah’s home was set for anyone seeking shelter in our town.
And still they crowded in. Noah could not yet climb the stairs without aggravating his wound, so h
e gave our room to three soldiers. Another three stayed in the shop. They came and went, and I tried to keep them fed, but the market was slim, the town dirty, the scent of human waste pervasive. Many died of dysentery.
I went about my household tasks with arms that physically ached for our son. Milk long dried up, I could almost understand what Noah spoke of in feeling the pain of a leg he no longer possessed.
The house lay quiet. The soldiers had been out all afternoon, as had Noah. I tried not to think of where my husband spent his time, but I knew. The tavern seemed to call his name every afternoon this week. He’d only just started venturing out of the home, and I could scarce comprehend that he would rather spend his time among men deep in their cups than at home with me.
I sighed and put the now-cold ham and biscuits on the warm stove. The door opened, and I startled as Noah hobbled through, shoving it closed with one of his crutches. A curse passed his lips and I cringed, unable to recognize the man before me—not because of his missing leg but because of what losing that leg was causing him to become.
I thought of two nights before, when we had come together as husband and wife for the first time since before he’d been wounded. What had once been an act that bonded felt graceless and uncomfortable. I felt Noah did battle in our lovemaking. As if he fought something unseen that he didn’t want to remember, the stench of ale heavy on his breath. In the end, he had become frustrated, and I wasn’t quite sure that I wasn’t the one he was frustrated with.
I’d turned on my side and cried myself to sleep, praying for the lost man I loved to come back to me.
Now, as he stumbled toward his print shop, his drunken gaze wavering, I could not help feeling a rise of disgust within me, and I felt ashamed.
He did not speak a word, but I heard him sit on the chair near his press and leave the door open. I turned to the cupboard, tears stinging my eyes. I swallowed them back. I had not left my parents and all I knew to give in to defeat the first time it presented itself. I must fight for my husband. If he was not strong enough to do so at this time, then I must do it for him.
I reached into the cupboard on the uppermost shelf, taking down the cup Sarah had given me all those months ago. I let my thumb travel over the Oriental pattern and then down to the chip at its base. I hadn’t taken much into this new life—the tea chest, Noah’s book, my writings, and this cup were all the vestiges of my old life, and the only reason I held them dear was because each, in its own way, was also a part of Noah.
I set the cup down and went about heating some water to steep some dried mint leaves. When it was finished, I carried the offering to the shop, sure that Noah would see the significance of me bringing out this special relic. Perhaps we could talk. Truly talk. I could assure him of my love, and maybe he would take me in his arms as he used to. Maybe I would welcome his embrace and feel safety within it instead of fear.
He didn’t look up when I entered the room.
“I brought you something,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice.
His gaze flickered toward the cup, but he kept his elbow resting on the end of the press, his face pointing toward the open window. “I don’t much feel like drinking tea, Emma.”
I held it out to him anyway. He hadn’t seen the cup. If he would only look . . . “Are you certain? It’ll do you good.”
He ran a hand over his face. “You drink it.”
I pushed it toward his chest. “I made it for—”
But with one quick motion, he slapped it from my hand. “I said I don’t want it!” I gasped as hot tea sloshed upon my skirts and the cup shattered on the floor, its simple pattern broken in many pieces. I went to it, in disbelief that he had done such a thing—reminiscent of what Father had done when I’d once offered him a cup of water after his tarring.
It couldn’t be fixed. Looking at the cup now, tea seeping into the wood of the floor, I could hardly remember how I’d once felt about my husband. What was more, I hardly cared to remember. I should have never run away with him. If I had left Boston with Mother and Father, if I had gone back to England, mayhap I would have met a gentleman whom I could have come to love. I could have lived in a fine house with servants. I could have bathed often and not endured the putrid stench of human waste baking in the hot sun the moment I stepped out of doors. Mayhap I would have borne healthy children.
How did God expect me to keep such an impossible vow to this man who had become a stranger to me? I’d joined him with liberty in mind. Was this—suffering the behavior of a husband—freedom?
I closed the door and allowed a breath of relief to pass my lips.
’Twas not right for a wife to sneak out of her own home with pale excuses of needing a measure of precious flour. But I did it more and more often of late, particularly at this late-afternoon hour, when Noah had been in his cups the near livelong day.
His wound had closed up. And yet while the pain should have dulled, he continued his drink.
Despite my attempts to urge him to think what he might write in his paper to stir the colonies to recruit more men, his old passion could not be spurred. I never knew which moods might strike the day. Sometimes he would lash out in frustration and humiliation; other times he would beg my forgiveness and tell me how he loved me. Both times, it felt as if there was a part of him I could not reach, even with my love. That a part of him had indeed died that day on Breed’s Hill. Or perhaps he had sealed it off himself, deep enough for me to never find.
I walked to Sarah’s, crossing Cradock Bridge, hoping to arrive before John came home. I knocked on the familiar door, and when my friend answered it with a raised brow, saying, “Out of flour again?” I could not stop the tears that came.
A look of pity came upon her face and she closed the door behind her, put an arm around my shoulder, and led me down toward the river away from the ever-present crowd of soldiers.
We didn’t speak at first, and though I hadn’t outright spoken of Noah’s struggle, I also knew that Sarah understood. I suddenly felt selfish. People died every day from dysentery; soldiers were in need of supplies. And here I wept over a surly husband.
We stared at the river for a moment, its muddy banks growing dry from the summer heat and the little rain we’d had of late.
Finally Sarah spoke. “This river is like a roaring lion in the spring, when the snows melt and the rains come. It’s peculiar how circumstances can reduce it to a pitiful stream.” She dragged in a breath. “Noah is fighting right now, and at the same time, he’s given up his fight. He’s realizing how weak and dry he is. It’s your turn to be the roaring lion, Emma. You must fight for him. I don’t mean for you to stand by and allow him to overtake your spirit. I don’t abide with drunken men who don’t know when to shut their mouths or keep their fists at their sides, but this drought is new for Noah. I trust God will help him to see in time, to restore him to the roaring lion he once was. And I’m trusting He will use you to do it.” She put her arm around me and I tried not to sob into the shoulder of her dress. “Be patient, dear. And come and get as much flour as you need.”
I laughed through my sniffles, grateful to have her on my side.
“Emmy!” Mary came barreling down the hill, her blonde braid flying.
Sarah squeezed my arm. “Take all the time you need. I’ll have your flour for you when you’re ready.” She left, tugging Mary’s braid as she passed.
The five-year-old launched herself at me, and I clung back, inhaling the scent of lavender her mother used in her hair to keep the nits away. Though I loved all of Sarah’s children, I couldn’t deny the bond I felt with Mary. She had always adored me more than the rest, and after we buried my sweet babe, we’d only found a closer tie, the precious child often bringing me wildflowers for my wee one’s grave.
Now, I sat down beside her, arranging my skirts to cover my legs.
“Why are you crying, Emmy?”
I swiped at my wet cheeks. “’Tis nothing, dear. Grown women get sad sometimes too.”
“Remember when you told me that if we tell each other what we’re afraid of, our fears lose their grip?”
“I do.”
“Maybe that’s true for what makes us sad, too.”
My bottom lip trembled at her thoughtfulness, her desire to help. “I—I am having trouble helping Mr. Winslow.”
“Because of his leg?”
“Yes . . . though I think it may be his heart that needs the most help.”
“I will pray for him. Reverend Osgood says Jesus knows about everyone, so He must know about Mr. Winslow’s leg, and his hurting heart. I will pray he gets better.”
I put an arm around her and pressed her close. “You are a sweet child. Do you want to know a secret?”
She leaned closer until our foreheads were touching. “What?” she whispered, her face all conspiratorial.
“Someday I hope to have a daughter just like you.”
She smiled, her entire face wrinkling with the idea of holding such a secret.
We stood, and I hugged her one more time. “Mr. Winslow’s going to get better, Emmy. I just know it. You’ll see.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Emma
As the season is now fast approaching, when every man must expect to be drawn into the field of action, it is highly necessary that he should prepare his mind, as well as everything necessary for it.
GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON
OCTOBER 1775
I pressed the edges of a pie crust together with a fork, the utensil creating lines on the dough. While many household staples were in short supply, I had managed to grab a few apples from the orchards beyond our home to make this special treat.
A knock came at our door, and I brushed my hands over my apron and opened it to the sight of a teary-eyed little John.
I thrust a hand out to him. I had not seen the Fultons since last Sunday meeting. “John. Whatever is the matter?” I’d never seen this boy cry.
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