Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  I scurried about, gathering odds and ends. The creak of the door from downstairs screeched up to my room. Dizziness swept over me; panic marched hobnailed boots over my chest. I would not get away with my plan if found out.

  Shoving the open valise beneath my bed, I contemplated whether I should hide or pretend indifference, as if I had finally decided to come back. I chose the former, shimmying under the bed beside my satchel.

  The cold wood pressed through my clothes as I listened to the steady thud of boots upon the stairs.

  “Liberty!” the captain called, opening the door of my chambers. It was the first time he had used my name without a preceding Miss. It sounded overly familiar, and I hated him for it. I held my breath, praying he would leave.

  “Has she returned?” The lieutenant.

  “No. It appears she has chosen to leave our employ.” I recognized the slur of his words. Truly, had he been drinking his rum so early in the day?

  The lieutenant walked on to his chambers. Was it my imagination, or were his steps slow, defeated?

  I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the captain to leave. Instead, his boots came along the side of my bed.

  “And without her personal effects, it seems.” The captain’s words were lower. He closed the door behind him and bolted it.

  My insides came alive with fire.

  He knew I was here.

  And now he would take pleasure in making me squirm.

  “If Miss Liberty were to take her personal effects, she would most certainly take the book of poetry Lieutenant Smythe had given her.”

  How did he know? Had the lieutenant revealed such personal information? It made me doubt both the officers, and I suddenly felt thoroughly alone. I remembered the way the captain had leaned over me the night before, tall in his full uniform, his words dirty and insinuating.

  I wanted to weep, to disappear into the floorboards, to forget my ridiculous plan of revenge. What could I enact on this man that would make him flinch?

  He may not have fired the musket, but he’d killed my brother just the same—he and every other invading redcoat. I saw that now. They shouldn’t be here, any of them.

  James was right. They were fools, every one.

  The room quieted, but then my arm was pulled so violently I thought for certain it would dislocate.

  My stomach and thighs dragged along the floorboards, my skirts catching, the fabric tearing on the roughened wood. “And what have we here?” The captain hoisted me up, shook me in front of him, his perfectly groomed queue not moving with the gesture, a sneer upon his hardened face. He reeked of rum and snuff, and I near gagged as his hot breath poured over me.

  I didn’t think. I spat in his eye.

  The action surprised him enough that he released me. “You little chit.”

  I scurried for the door, but before I could unlatch the bolt, he caught me and dragged me, the heels of my boots skidding across the floor.

  “So you have some fight in you after all, do you?” He pushed me onto the bed. “Don’t fret. I enjoy a bout with my women as much as an acquiescence.”

  I kicked; I scratched. To my extreme horror, he seemed to feed on my reaction, pinning my arms above my head, holding me down with a hard knee.

  A loud knock upon my chamber door. “Open up at once, sir. You’re making a fracas. Enough of this.”

  The captain looked up. “This is none of your concern, Lieutenant. Leave us or I’ll have you . . . court-martialed for disobeying orders.” The slur of his words discredited the authority he attempted to put behind them.

  “You will find yourself in the gallows along with Preston and his men before that happens. You are angry about the events of last night, but do not be foolhardy—Miss Liberty has naught to do with all that.”

  The captain growled. The rough red wool of his coat scraped against my skin. He pushed me deeper into the straw of the bed. “The blasted . . . dunderhead is right.” He removed himself from on top of me.

  Without thought or hesitation I scooped up the pewter candlestick holder and brought it for a blow across his head. I struck twice before he wrenched the holder from my hand and repaid me in kind.

  A black curtain closed before my eyes and blinded me to everything but the hurt of being struck. Sticky blood trailed down my face. I lunged for the door again, but he caught me with little effort and once more bashed my head with the holder. Then, in the most gruesome act of violation, he lifted my skirts and took me with a force that tore through me, leaving me hollow and destitute inside, both body and soul.

  From outside my chambers, the lieutenant chopped at the door with a hatchet, but by the time the door was splintered open, the captain had finished his indecency and stood as smug and well-put-together as if he were standing before Colonel Dalrymple himself.

  I jumped when the lieutenant shouted a dreadfully foul word at the captain and landed a well-placed fist across his nose, leaving a gush of blood to splatter down the front of his tidy uniform. Without remorse, he threw another blast, and then another. I watched as warm tears mixed with the blood on my face.

  When the captain could no longer stand, the lieutenant stopped the blows. “You will most certainly pay for your crimes,” he said.

  The captain straightened, stanched the flow of blood with a handkerchief from his pocket. “We’ll see about that, now . . . won’t we?” He did not look at me or the lieutenant again as he stumbled past us, down the stairs, and out the door.

  “Liberty . . .” The lieutenant held a hand to me, but I ignored it.

  “Go,” I whispered from where I lay on the bed in a ball, humiliated not only by what was done to me, but that it was witnessed by another.

  “I can summon a doctor. You need medical attention. I will go with you to Hutchinson. The captain will pay for this. I cannot leave you.” Through my blinding pain, I saw his bottom lip tremble. He reached out tentative fingers to stroke my shoulder.

  I recoiled as if his hands had burned me. “Leave me!” I yelled with as much force as I could through quivering lips.

  After a moment he did leave. The door of the house echoed closed again. Blessed quiet enveloped the abode. And yet I couldn’t believe the lieutenant had truly left me. More than likely, he had gone to fetch a doctor. I would have to move quickly.

  I pressed the coverlet to my bloodied head, not caring that I damaged the fine linens. With rigid steps, I pulled the valise from beneath the bed, my insides cramped and wasted. In light of all the captain had taken from me, my plan seemed ridiculous, childish. Indeed, it could not hurt him, and it would not satiate my murderous thoughts. And yet it would anger him. And by the time he found out, I would be out of his reach and he would be on his way to Castle Island.

  With the linen still pressed to my head, I entered the captain’s chambers. I opened his drawers, emptied them onto his bed, searched for anything of value—a pocket watch, a small silver plate, anything. I found a silver whistle with the king’s emblem and a gold watch chain. In the bottom drawer, I found an inconspicuous wooden shaving kit. I opened it, unmindful of the razors spilling from the box. I glimpsed a white envelope, the red sealing wax pressed firm upon it. I lifted it, heavy in my hands. My breath caught.

  I counted out ten pounds of British sterling silver hidden in the shaving kit and did not feel an ounce of remorse at taking every pound. I emptied my shiny booty into the worn valise and proceeded to the lieutenant’s chambers.

  His room was tidy and smelled of him—cedar and soap. I went through his things with more care, finding nothing of interest and no silver. Then my eyes landed on his bureau, upon the signet ring I’d so often seen adorning his finger. I presumed he took it off to sleep, as I had found it left behind in this same spot when cleaning his chambers on particularly hectic mornings.

  My conscience bade me not to touch the ring. And yet the shining gold, the bloodstones that formed an outline of an anchor, called to me. I stared at the ring, knowing I should not take it. The lieutena
nt had been kind to me, hadn’t he?

  And yet he had one fault I could not ignore.

  He was one of them.

  The brutes who forced themselves on a town who didn’t want them. The brutes who forced themselves on young women. The brutes who had killed my brother.

  I swept the ring up and placed it in a side pocket of my valise, along with the sterling.

  Tonight I would seek and pay for my own shelter, by my own means, ill-gotten though they might be.

  And by the next day at this time, all I loathed would be far from me, banished to Castle Island, all thanks to my brother’s life . . . and death.

  I FOLLOWED BRAD into the museum. Excitement threaded through my veins, yet even as Brad paid for our tickets, I doubted the feelings. Emotions could be fleeting and temporary. Hope, joy, excitement. All could be snuffed out in an instant.

  I hated the dark thoughts and stepped an inch closer to Brad, choosing to cling to the feelings of a moment earlier.

  The woman behind the counter directed us to the exhibit in Gallery 133: “Inside the Box: Massachusetts State House Time Capsule Revealed.” The pamphlet she gave us stated that the contents of the time capsule would be on display until the middle of April. Then they’d be reburied at the State House for a future generation to find.

  Brad grasped my hand again as we walked through the museum, the insides of our forearms brushing against one another. This time he didn’t let go.

  As we entered Gallery 133, I glimpsed boxes atop a table, along with a collection of green, copper, and silver coins and several sets of newspapers. The empty, weather-worn time capsule box sat alongside an inscribed silver plaque, commemorating the New State House on July 4, 1795, the nineteenth anniversary of the country’s declaration of independence.

  And there, at the end of the table, in its own box, lay a single, neatly printed paper, the edges yellowed, but otherwise none the worse for wear. The title read Freedom’s Ring. My gaze flew to the bottom, where the signature Liberty Gregory stood out in neat swirls.

  “Wow,” I whispered, the need to be reverent overwhelming in this place. A place where, for just a few moments, history joined with the present in a dance so fluid and graceful a person couldn’t tell one from the other.

  We stood in silence, reading Liberty’s poem.

  FREEDOM’S RING

  Across the swell of seas,

  in the midst of church bells’ ring,

  you came to me.

  Despised for the scarlet coat,

  shadow of enemies at your throat,

  you came to me.

  Bitterness and betrayal won,

  on that fifth of March the fight begun.

  Sorrow and secrets I bore alone,

  for guilt and remorse left unatoned.

  The ring not mine but yours, I know;

  untold grief was mine to sow.

  My sins you chose to forget

  in a final act of selflessness.

  Come April on the Green,

  you shed your blood . . . still scarlet.

  I despise the color through and true.

  I shall recall the symbol of love and strife

  as long as God above may grant me life.

  Forgive me for my blinded eyes,

  freedom’s ring and colors lie.

  You were not the enemy after all.

  And when at heaven’s gates I call,

  I remember. . . .

  “Victory belongs to the one who is strong.”

  I will cling to Him all the dark night long.

  A burst of freedom within my heart,

  the ring I stole . . . my guilt departs.

  As church bells ring and freedom chimes,

  I remember.

  Liberty Gregory, 1795

  I stood over the ancient words, read them again. There was no denying the poem spoke of a ring—a symbol of love, likely bearing the same inscription as the ring around my neck. Brad’s ring.

  I slid a pointer finger through the generous circle at my neck, tried to contain my hope over the find. What were the chances this Liberty Gregory had actually owned Brad’s ring? What were the chances she was truly Brad’s ancestor?

  Beside me, Brad shifted from one foot to the other. “Neat, right?”

  No way I could deny that. “Crazy neat.”

  “And she’s definitely talking about a ring with a quote that matches our ring.”

  I nodded, trying not to get hung up on the fact that he called it our ring. “A definite story.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Up to figuring it out?”

  Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have said no to that face, his stubble more of an eleven-o’clock than a five-o’clock shadow, the irises of his eyes speckled with the gold of hope, his ears almost wiggling with possibility. I wanted to spend more time with him, to delve into this mystery we shared. If I ended our journey now—if I gave him back the ring—I would be alone. Again.

  I smiled, took out my iPhone. “I can take a picture, right?”

  “Sure can.” Brad slipped his own phone from his pocket. “I’m going to copy down the words as a backup, too.”

  As he finished, I looked out of the corner of my eye at Brad’s scrunched-up face. His stomach rumbled. I poked his arm with my finger. “We don’t have to stay here, you know. I—”

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me in the direction of the exit. “Not that I don’t appreciate history and fine art and all, but I appreciate fine food a heck of a lot more.”

  We hopped into the Accord and eased into downtown Boston. My breathing turned quieter when we headed away from Back Bay and into Boston’s Seaport District.

  “Like Del Frisco’s?”

  I hid a smile. “Fitting you should bring me to Liberty Wharf. And yes, seafood here’s the best.”

  “I’m feeling like steak tonight, but they have the best of both worlds.”

  A smattering of people occupied the high-end restaurant—no more than I’d expect for a Wednesday night in March. Moonlight glittered off the frozen harbor as the hostess sat us at a table set apart from the circular bar. The soft lighting twinkled off empty wineglasses. Definitely romantic, though I couldn’t be certain that’s what Brad intended.

  We unfolded our menus, and I searched for something under twenty bucks in case Brad insisted on paying, as he’d done a week earlier.

  “No skimping. The scallops look good.”

  I closed my menu in defeat and sighed. “You read my mind.”

  He shut his menu. His foot brushed against mine, then retreated quick enough that the gesture must have been an accident. He dug his phone from his pocket, opened the note he had copied at the museum, and put the device on the table. “Up to some work, my dear Watson?”

  I tapped the cover of the phone. “Don’t you think we should have our dinner first?”

  “An old-fashioned girl, right? No electronics on dates. I get it.”

  “So this is a date?” I cringed at the words that flew off my lips. Monitor. Mouth. I could almost hear the scolding Mom would be giving me.

  He shrugged. “Do you want it to be?”

  Trapped. I looked around the elegant restaurant, inhaled the scent of seafood and lemon and steak. He could have taken me to Burger King if all he wanted was some beef and to mull over the words of the poem. I decided to play it safe. “Do you?”

  The waiter came to take our orders.

  When he left, I sat back in my chair. “Saved by the bell.”

  He raised his Coke and took a sip. “Great show. Favorite episode?”

  “You are unbelievable.”

  He grinned. “Why, thank you. So . . . favorite episode?”

  I sighed, accepting his way of not dealing with the date question. “The prom one. When Kelly bails on Zack because her dad loses his job. Then Zack puts on a private prom outside the school for her.”

  He pressed his lips together, pretended serious contemplation. “Good one, good one. But I have to say the all-time
best episode was the Save the Max telethon.”

  We shared a laugh. When the chuckles subsided, Brad grew serious. “Back to your question. Yeah, I’d like it if this were a date.”

  My skin heated. Did I want that? Was it emotionally healthy to get involved with a man I’d met that day?

  He continued. “No pressure, though, you know? I mean, you’ve worn that ring all this time. You might even be attached to the guy who gave it to you . . . only you knew me for a minute in a moment of terror. I’ll bet you conjured up someone spectacular in two years’ time. Guess I probably don’t measure up very well, huh?”

  “I definitely didn’t picture a tattooed contractor with a van from an episode of Hoarders,” I admitted.

  He nodded, his mouth pulled into a sad smile. I hated the regret it spoke of, but he was right. I’d clung to him for some sort of illusory hope the last two years. The hazy image, the feel of his arms carrying me away from horror. And yet his words frightened me. Somehow I would have to reconcile dreamy Red Sox Sweatshirt with real Brad. Would I come up disappointed?

  “I bet you’ve had a few ideas about the heroine in distress you rescued too. Bet I don’t fit the bill either.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re better than I imagined. You’re real.”

  My body tingled at the affirmation. I only wished I could reciprocate the compliment. But while I did love knowing who my rescuer was, a part of me still had to come to grips with my fairy-tale nightmares, my countless daydreams in which Brad was the perfect hero of my world.

  I had to come to grips with the fact that this was real life; there were no perfect heroes.

  After the waiter cleared our empty plates, leaving nothing but two cups of coffee between us, we each took out our phones and studied the words to the poem.

  “What do you think?” Brad sipped his dark coffee.

  “I think I’m not an English major. But I still find this stuff fascinating.”

  “It is pretty cool. History revealed. And it feels . . . personal.”

  “It is personal. Brad, this woman could be your great-grandmother’s great-grandmother.” I scrolled the screen up and down on my phone, my pinkie finger tapping the table. “We need to find out more about Liberty.” My sentence—my excited tone—hung in the air, and I realized how crazy I sounded. “Sorry. I’m not weirding you out, am I? I do realize it’s your family history.”