Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  The militia had dwindled throughout the night to a mere seventy, maybe eighty men. They lined themselves along the green, straight and proud, their own young drummer boy among them. I saw brother beside brother in both Graham and Hugh, Nathaniel and Michael. A well of pride erupted in me but quickly diminished at the first sight of crimson coats against the foggy, red horizon.

  The mass of red floated as far as the eye could see. Like little red ants—the light infantry along with the drummers and fife players, followed by the tall grenadiers with their intimidating bearskin caps. Some held flags with yellow borders, their regiment numbers proudly displayed on a red shield encircled with thistles and roses. I wondered if Alexander was among the throng.

  They drew closer. Muskets clanked. Boots stamped. The giant wooden wheels of wagons protested beneath the weight of their six-pounder field guns.

  Our militia looked pitiful against the King’s Army, and no doubt, with their beaver hats and old flintlocks, they felt it. Yet they stood firm—unshaking—against the Regulars, against King George III himself.

  My hands trembled on the painted sill as the Regulars gathered in perfect formation on the green and the drums let out one last loud rap.

  Then, silence.

  One of the commanders came forth, shouted at the militia. “Lay down your arms, you rebels, and disperse!”

  My pulse pounded within my veins, my heart pumping blood to every inch of my body. A thin layer of sweat blanketed my skin, then cooled quick enough to create a chill.

  “I say, lay down your arms, you rebels, and disperse!” I didn’t think the words could have been spoken with more force, but the commander managed it. They brooked no refusal. He was speaking on behalf of the king himself.

  Our militia wavered beneath the regal mandate, beginning with the drummer boy. A few filed back. The Gregory men held their position. Others filed off to a stone wall on the right flank of the Regulars, the redcoats on their heels, weapons poised.

  Then, though I couldn’t tell whether it came from Patriot or Regular, a shot echoed through the still morning.

  I gasped, shrank back from the window. I hadn’t expected it, truly. Even with all the pomp and show, even with both sides at the ready, even having witnessed my own brother’s lifeblood seep from him in a much smaller confrontation five years earlier, I wasn’t prepared for the moment of that first shot. My stomach revolted and I swallowed the bitter bile stewing in the back of my throat even as more musket fire lit the air.

  It came from behind the stone walls where some of the Patriots had taken cover, from the Brown Bess muskets of the Regulars. Smoke filled the pink haze of morning. The rotten stench of musket fire seeped beneath our door, haunting me with memories of that March night years earlier. All my mind’s eye could see was scarlet blood on snow, stark red against white, and I grasped for the assurance I’d felt on my knees with Cora, just a short time earlier.

  The militia retreated and the redcoats advanced, leaving behind a smattering of motionless Patriot bodies. I blinked, brought to life by Cora’s muffled cries, her pleas to God mixed with the tears of a devoted wife, of a loving mother. I scooped up the waiting supplies and followed a trembling Cora out of the house and onto the green. Scattered musket fire sounded farther up on the common, but then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over, leaving behind only the stink of death mixed with the stench of gunpowder.

  The Regulars resumed formation, let out a series of loud “Hip, hip, huzzahs,” took up their fifes and drums, and without remorse, started up a jolly tune of “Yankee Doodle,” mocking us in as complete a humiliation as could be found.

  As they cleared the green, Cora and I ran to the wounded lumps. As I did, I searched frantically for Hugh’s sturdy form among the standing militia, behind the stone walls, gathering near the tavern. I saw no sign of him, nor Graham nor Nathaniel nor Michael. I concentrated on tending to the wounded before me—the fate of the Gregory men would be known to me soon enough.

  Cora went off to the left, I to the right. I bent beside a man who clutched his leg, but he waved me off to those more grievously wounded. Reverend Clark knelt beside one motionless man and recited a prayer.

  An instinctive, guttural wail sounded from the other side of the green. When I looked, I recognized Nathaniel, his tall form bent over . . . ?

  I ran toward him, my basket of supplies thumping my legs, the soles of my boots slipping on mud. Aware of the sound of Cora’s retching, I saw Michael’s too-small, still body beneath Nathaniel’s. Out of my peripheral vision, I spotted another body, but I couldn’t look. I couldn’t bear to see which other brother had fallen. I collapsed to my knees beside Nathaniel, pushed at him to no avail, searched out Michael’s wrist beneath his hysterical older brother.

  I sought for a pulse, conscious of how young and tight Michael’s skin felt beneath my fingers.

  Nothing.

  I fought my own tears, crawled on my knees to the body beside them, and finally looked at the face. Graham’s. His eyes fluttered, lips moving. “Tell Cora . . . I’m sorry . . . I tried to . . . get . . . front of him . . .” He stared up into the dawn sky, took a crackling breath before his gaze froze, lids open, eyes lifeless.

  No . . . Lord, no. It had all happened so quickly. Whatever feeling of peace I’d experienced just hours before while praying on the hardwood with Cora, I couldn’t reconcile it with the hopeless feeling that overcame me now. I’d believed God would watch over us. I’d believed He’d had our good in mind. I’d believed . . .

  Cora, wet vomit still on the corner of her mouth, crawled to her husband—then wavering, went to her son. I put my arms around her trembling body, the tune of “Yankee Doodle” growing faint as the redcoats continued their march to Concord.

  Reverend Clark bent over Graham, said a prayer that would accompany him into eternity, then moved on to Michael. I willed my legs to hold me. There were others who needed help. I must tend to them. My knees lifted me inches, then failed me.

  A shadow blocked out the rising of the sun. It spoke my name. “Liberty.”

  I lifted my head. Alexander stood before me in full uniform, but I couldn’t comprehend his presence, why he should be here and not with his regiment. I wanted to seek his arms for comfort and I wanted to pound his chest for being part of such a thing. For the death of my benefactor and his son. My friend’s husband and child. A part of me hated him in that moment, hated what he stood for. Blast the bloody Crown of England. Blast every last Regular imposing himself on us and our right to freedom. Their hearts—Alexander’s heart—must be made of steel to inflict such pain and death. On one such as Michael, no less. A mere child.

  He knelt beside me and laid a hand on my arm. “It should never have come to this. I—I am so sorry.”

  I wrested my arm from him and pinned him with the cruelest look I could muster beneath my tears. Just the sight of him made me grow hard inside. Cold. “Leave me now. I never wish to see you again.”

  “Liberty, I—”

  “Leave!”

  “They should have let us pass. They should not have fired upon—”

  His words were cut short by a soft utterance of pain. His eyes widened in surprise, his lips parted. I didn’t notice the tip of the bayonet in his side until he looked down to see it for himself, blood glinting on the metal. It disappeared, and his body jerked violently when he fell to his knees. Behind him stood Hugh, bloodied weapon in hand, eyes sad, defeated. He fell alongside Alexander, clutching his thigh, wet with crimson blood.

  Black spots danced before my eyes. The last thought I remembered was trying to decide whom to tend to first.

  Alexander or Hugh.

  Alexander . . . or Hugh.

  Alexander.

  Or.

  Hugh.

  I never did make up my mind. And I’m still uncertain whether I swooned from the shock of seeing both the men I loved wounded . . .

  Or the shock of realizing I very much loved both men.

  The pungent
scent of smelling salts whisked me awake. I pushed them away, breathed around the smell of ammonia. Mrs. Clark sat above me, her warm hand smoothing back my hair. “There, there, dear.”

  I pushed my upper body onto my elbows. “Hugh . . . Alexander. James.”

  She shushed me, placed the salts on a stand beside the bed. “Your son is being taken care of by Miriam White at the Gregory place. He is well. I called on them at the start of the hour.”

  I placed my hand upon my head. “Where am I? They must need help . . .”

  “You’re at Buckman’s. Dr. Richards is in high demand, but I think he is rather enjoying the need. A rider has gone for Dr. Warren and Dr. Church. You must rest.”

  The image of Graham’s lifeless body, of Michael’s still form beneath his brother’s, of two brothers alive—was Hugh alive?—and two dead. And Alexander. Oh, Alexander. A thousand regrets washed over me.

  “Mr. Gregory is well. A minor wound to his leg is all. Dr. Richards says as long as infection doesn’t set in, he will be walking within a fortnight.”

  My lungs relaxed as I breathed out, absorbing the news.

  I wanted to ask of Alexander, but what would she know of a Regular? I ran my tongue over my dry lips. “Cora?”

  Mrs. Clark’s mouth turned downward. “She is grieving deeply, of course. She will need you now more than ever. Not as an apprentice but as a friend.”

  I nodded, feeling a sudden fierce loyalty to my grieving mentor. I wiggled my toes, set them on the solid surface of the floor. How dependable that floor was; how I appreciated such a small thing in that moment.

  “I think I will see Mr. Gregory first. Is he at his brother’s home?”

  “He is here, in the next room. Please call on me if you need anything. I plan to bring a meal later.”

  My head swelled with pain, which then receded in what I knew would be a persistent headache. I thanked her, smoothed out my wrinkled skirt, picked up my basket of supplies, and prepared what I would say to Hugh beneath the fog of my thoughts.

  He had lost a brother and a nephew this day. He had killed a man. A man I loved. The emotions I felt were too complicated to begin wading through. Perhaps none of them mattered. What mattered now was that Hugh knew I was there for him, that I cared for him—more than I realized. I may have failed him before, but I would resolutely stand by his side now.

  I entered his room, the sunlight streaming onto the crimson quilt at his feet. I crept in with soft steps, my gaze on his closed eyes. Wet trails of shiny skin traveled from their corners to his ears, speaking quietly of his grief.

  I crept closer, but a tight floorboard squealed of my presence. His eyes came open.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.” I pulled a chair to the side of his bed and sat, dizziness sweeping over me, the throbbing in my head obstinate.

  Hugh stared at the ceiling. “I was not sleeping.”

  I longed to tell him how sorry I was, but such words didn’t seem to do justice to the events of the day. Somehow How could you? didn’t seem appropriate either.

  “How is your leg?”

  “It’s there.” Dry humor. Somehow fitting.

  He sighed. “I should be dead also. I was alongside them. After I speared that lobster, they could have shot me. But he’d fallen behind. They didn’t shoot me when they came for him, but they could have. I should be dead too.”

  That lobster . . .

  Hugh didn’t realize Alexander was the man I’d been talking to that spring day nearly a year earlier, in the backyard. He didn’t realize Alexander was the Regular I’d run to that night. He’d been seeking revenge when he’d plunged the bayonet into his side, but he hadn’t known the depth of my feelings for the man he aimed to kill.

  Would it have made a difference? Would he have sought all the harder to do away with Alexander? Or would he have hesitated for my sake?

  Hugh mumbled in delirium. “I should be dead. I should be dead.”

  My heart near split open at seeing him so distraught. Unbidden, fond memories came to my mind. Hugh’s uncertainty the first time he stacked blocks with James on Graham and Cora’s floor. His look of determination as he affixed two pieces of wood together—the first of what was to be our homestead. His smile as he came into Midwife Louisa’s store, pretending to need more herbs for a sister who was no longer ailing.

  His crumpled form in Graham’s chair after seeing me run to Buckman’s Tavern, to Alexander.

  I didn’t know how to comfort him. In the end, I chose to meet Hugh’s helplessness with silence.

  And when I reached for his hand, he did not pull away.

  THE PACKAGE CAME earlier than I’d expected. A manila envelope adorned with a red-and-yellow Royal Mail stamp, it felt foreign in my hands. The distinct postage reminded me of the vast distance between Massachusetts and England. Grace had told me she’d overheard Lydia and Roger discussing possible living arrangements overseas. Though I knew the thought to be self-absorbed, deep inside I wondered if Lydia wanted to move away because of me, if she wanted to whisk her family from me once and for all.

  I tightened my grip on the thin envelope, creasing it slightly. A sharp pang of isolation tore through me, and I picked up my phone.

  He answered on the first ring. “Hey, beautiful.”

  I pressed the phone to my ear, leaning into Brad’s voice. “Hey yourself.”

  “You up for watching the Sox tonight? They have to redeem themselves from Wednesday’s game.”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  In the background, I heard what sounded like a car door shut. “I’m in Cambridge. Want to grab something to eat?”

  I clutched Liberty’s ring in my palm, tugged the chain at my neck. “How about I make you dinner. Lasagna sound all right?”

  “More than all right. Be there in an hour?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him the package came, but the sound of a drill and hammering ruined the moment. We hung up, and I busied myself cooking the meat sauce for the lasagna, turning on the TV to a rerun of I Love Lucy to chase away the loneliness in my apartment.

  When Brad walked in, the scents of tomato sauce and garlic filled the kitchen, the lasagna baking in the oven. Everything about the scene—him walking in without knocking, me cooking dinner for him—spoke of a warm normality, an exciting new kind of regular that I didn’t know if I could ever live without, now that I’d experienced it.

  I dried my hands on a dishcloth and turned into his embrace. I knocked his hat upward on his head and tapped the pencil at his temple so it didn’t fall. He kissed me and I breathed in the scents of sawdust and spice and all things Brad.

  “I missed you.” He spoke into my hair.

  “I just saw you last night.” But I knew what he meant. “I missed you today too. How was work?”

  “Good, got a lot done. I only wish—hey, is that what I think it is?” He let his arms fall from my sides. I followed his gaze to the envelope, the Royal Mail logo of a red-and-yellow crown on its upper corner.

  “It is. I thought she might have e-mailed me some of what she found, but I guess not. Looks like that’s it. I didn’t want to open it without you.”

  “I should hope not.” He gave me a wink and reached for the package, turning it in his hands much as I had first done when I received it—as if trying to imagine the contents within but frightened to tear it open and have our expectations dashed.

  He placed it back on the counter, tapped his fingers at his thighs. “After supper?”

  “I think that would be best. It’s almost ready.”

  I forced down a small piece of lasagna and some salad as Brad ate with the hunger of a starving bear.

  We shared bits and pieces of our day, but the distraction of the manila envelope remained in my peripheral vision. When we had finally cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, there was nothing left to divert us.

  Brad handed me the envelope. “Go ahead.”

  I shoved it back at him. “No, it’s your family. You open it.”


  He shook his head and walked to the living room, where he turned on a lamp and sat on the couch. He patted the spot beside him. “We’re making too much of this. It’s not like any information in this envelope is going to tell us what did or didn’t happen between Liberty and her British soldier. We probably know more about the story of the ring than any genealogist in London could ever find, what with the poem and all. I’m hoping for a name, though, you know? Something more we can go on.”

  I flopped onto the couch beside him, placed a hand on his knee. “You’re right.” I closed my eyes, listened to the gentle hum of the heat kicking on. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

  He tore the envelope open as carefully as he could and slid out a thin stack of computer papers. On the top sat a letter.

  “You want me to read it out loud?” Brad scooted closer to me until our sides met. I leaned into his shoulder and nodded, reading along as his voice echoed in the quiet confines of my apartment.

  11 APRIL 2015

  Ms. Anaya David,

  Thank you for allowing me the privilege of researching your family history.

  Given the information you imparted to me, I believe I have found the soldier you are looking for. While there were two soldiers of the Royal Army possessing the surname Smythe in Boston in early March 1770, only one of those men was also present at the Battle of Lexington in April 1775.

  Below, please find a summary of my findings, largely gleaned from muster rolls. Along with this letter, I have attached the details of my research, as well as their sources.

  Name: Alexander Edward Smythe

  Rank and Regiment as of March 1770 (in Boston): Lieutenant, 29th Regiment of Foot, British Army

  Rank and Regiment as of April 1775 (in Boston and at Lexington Battle): Captain, 47th Regiment of Foot, British Army

  Death: 19 April 1775, Lexington

  I wish you all the best in your continued research, Ms. David. Please contact me if I can be of any further assistance to you or your family in your genealogical quest.

  Sincerely,

  Patricia Hurst, AGRA Genealogist