Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

Brad tapped the papers on his knee. “Alexander Smythe. Do you think that’s really him—Liberty’s soldier?”

  “He was the only Smythe around for both the massacre and the Lexington battle. It has to be him.” I lifted the letter to see a slew of military records. “I guess he died at Lexington after all.”

  “Funny, I didn’t think any Regulars died at Lexington. . . .”

  “Can’t deny the king’s records.”

  Brad nodded. “Still can’t figure it. Why would Liberty hand down Alexander’s ring to a son she had with Hugh . . . her husband? I would think Michael Gregory would have been ashamed to receive it, yet he made certain Amelia had it at his death.”

  I went into my bedroom, grabbed my laptop. “Okay, Kilroy. Work your magic with those websites. Let’s see if anything for Alexander Smythe comes up.”

  An hour later, Red Sox game forgotten, we’d come up with a handful of Alexander Smythes, none of whom matched the time period and location we searched. I stifled a yawn. “He was an English citizen. It’s not like we’d find any birth or death records, or even a census. There has to be something somewhere, though.”

  Brad set my laptop on the coffee table, put an arm around me, and pulled me onto his lap. “We’ll have to take a look at the archives or NEHGS again. If a Regular did actually die at Lexington, someone must have written something about it somewhere.”

  I snuggled into him, soaking up his confidence, his solidness. I thought of our conversation at the beach—Brad’s urging that I trust someone greater than myself. I thought of Alexander Smythe dying in battle, of Brad at war over in Iraq, of my recurring nightmares about the upcoming Patriots’ Day race.

  Silence hung over the room and Brad didn’t move to put the Sox game on.

  I reached for the ring, ran my finger over the engravings. “So after Iraq . . . did you ever have dreams? You know, bad ones?”

  He let out a long sigh, raked a hand through his hair. “I still do, once in a while. You having nightmares again?”

  I nodded. “What are they like? Your nightmares.”

  “Sheesh, Annie, do you really want to know?”

  I curled into him. “Yes.” The whispered word hung in the air.

  I felt his chest rise and fall beneath where my head lay. “For some reason I rarely dream about the woman with the groceries. I think about her all the time when I’m awake. I imagine going back over there, trying to find her family, telling them how sorry I am. I still think I’ll try to one day.”

  The gentle swishing and humming of the dishwasher sounded through the apartment. “What do you dream about, then?”

  I heard him swallow. Hesitate. Just when I thought he’d refuse to tell me, he spoke. “The woman with the groceries—that was the most horrible thing. That was my first tour. But there were other things that haunt me. Lots of them. One of—well . . . Annie, it’s war. I don’t think most people think about it, but someone had to . . . take care of—collect the dead bodies . . . the pieces of the soldiers blown apart by roadside bombs.”

  “Oh, Brad.”

  “I had a buddy who couldn’t take it anymore. He went in a port-a-john, blew his head off.” His words shook. “Peeling your friend’s brains off a plastic port-a-john wall that’s been baking in hundred-degree weather will make just about anyone go crazy.”

  I closed my eyes, shook my head. I thought of what I’d seen after the marathon bombing. The limbs, the blood.

  “How do you get over something like that?”

  He snorted. “Who said I’m over it?”

  I slipped my hand in his.

  “Those are the nightmares I have. Reliving that stuff. After I came back from that second tour in Iraq, I just wouldn’t sleep. I was exhausted. Drank too much. I forgot all about the encouragement I got from the ring, from my dad’s letter. Then I found someone—a buddy from high school who’d been in Iraq too. We’d talk about everything. We’d pray together, every day. It was intense, Annie. Almost like battle itself. But the worst of the nightmares stopped after that. Sleep came easier. So did living.” He laid his chin on the top of my head. “The dreams come back now and then. I think they always will. It’s a battle I’ll probably fight until I die. But I don’t have to fight it alone.”

  I didn’t ask what he meant—I knew what he meant: that God was alongside him, a constant companion in a time of turmoil. I thought of the ring, how I had turned to it for comfort so many times after the bombing. Only it was a lifeless—albeit very cool—object, a piece of metal. How amazing would it be to have a living Savior beside me in my troubles?

  “Thank you . . . for telling me.” I knew it cost Brad something to open up this, the deepest part of his heart, to me. I didn’t take it for granted.

  “So what about you? You dream about the bombing a lot?”

  I nodded. “The nightmares went away for a while after I met you, but as this race comes closer . . . I dream about that instead. About something happening. Stupid, huh?”

  “Not stupid. Our fears can do crazy things to us.” Then, “You want me to pray with you?”

  I’m sure he felt me freeze in his arms. I was okay with Brad believing all this Jesus stuff. I knew it made him a better person, and that was fine by me. And maybe I’d pray on my own. Tonight. Alone. But with him? It just seemed too . . . weird.

  “Maybe some other time, okay?”

  He let the subject drop, and after a minute we turned on the Red Sox game, watching them win against the Orioles by one run.

  When Brad turned off the TV, he poked a finger in my side. “So back to our friend. Alexander. I have to work all day Saturday, but how about another research trip sometime next week?”

  Next week. After the race. By then, I’d either have made it through, with Grace by my side, or . . . I wouldn’t.

  “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

  APRIL 21, 1775

  I woke to the sound of mumbling beside me, straightened myself from the hard chair on which I slept on the second floor of Buckman’s Tavern.

  “Graham, no . . . Michael . . .” A foul word, then, “Get away from her, you lobster . . . Liberty . . . my Liberty . . .”

  My Liberty . . .

  Those two words did confounding things to my heart.

  He still cared for me. Though I had betrayed him, chosen the enemy over him, lied to him, and never even apologized for hurting him so, somewhere in the depths of his soul, he cared for me.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dim room, I glimpsed Hugh’s head toss back and forth, then settle. I rose from my crooked pose, rubbed the knot from my neck, and stepped closer to the bed.

  My fingers sought the head of my patient. I released a long sigh of relief at its coolness.

  I moved my hand to his temple, studying his face in sleep as he stilled beneath my touch. New lines etched his eyes and mouth. I knew I was the cause of more than one. How had I been so foolish as to spurn his love—to spurn an opportunity for a life with him, to spurn an opportunity for a family?

  I allowed my hand to fall. There was too much misery and suffering in this life for one to bear alone. I thought of the peace I’d found before the battle, beside Cora and her prayers. Without thinking, I dropped to my knees alongside Hugh’s bed and silently poured my heart out to my Creator. I continued this way until light streamed forth from the window and the sound of pans clattered in the kitchen below. I felt a hand on my head.

  When I looked up, Hugh studied me.

  “You needn’t have stayed the night.”

  I straightened, took his hand from my head and held it, warm in my own fingers. “I wished to be certain you did not suffer a fever.”

  He stared at me then, so long I began to feel uncomfortable. I stood. “I’ll need to remove your dressing today and apply fresh lint. Would you like me to do so now, or would you rather break your fast first?”

  He shifted on the bed. “Best do it now.”

  I left the room to fill the pitcher with fresh water in which to wash my
hands. I gathered my supplies and brought them to the bed. He removed the covers from his pale, wounded leg, pulling his white shirt as low as it could go without concealing the wound on his thigh.

  “Perhaps I should fetch Mrs. Buckman to assist me. . . .”

  He closed his eyes. “Whatever you wish.”

  I felt I had let him down by mentioning Mrs. Buckman. I did not truly need an assistant; I only wished to maintain propriety. Unbidden, the memory of kissing Alexander beneath the tree outside this very window, of Hugh watching us from across the common, came to me.

  I swallowed the recollection along with my shame and focused on the task at hand. I sat on the chair beside his bed, my tray on the other side of his leg, and began to remove as much of the lint as possible without pulling at the exposed wound. “Does it hurt much?”

  “No.”

  I continued working.

  “How is Cora?”

  I studied a piece of lint stuck in the open wound. When I pulled at it, Hugh flinched, and I left it alone. “She is grief-stricken, to be certain.”

  I smeared a tincture of honey and camphor on the wound, the ointment releasing an herbal scent into the air. I rinsed my hands, then dipped fresh lint in sweet oil—something Dr. Richards had neglected to do, or the old lint would have removed easier. I covered the wound with the lint, pulled his bedclothes up, and washed my hands.

  I sat back in the chair. He did not look at me. “I am sorry, Hugh. For Graham, and Michael . . .” My eyelids grew hot, and I turned from him.

  “Freedom—it comes at a cost.”

  Yes, I knew that all too well. “You heard news that the Regulars never obtained the stores at Concord?”

  Hugh smiled. My breath caught.

  “I heard we took them off guard on their way back to Boston.”

  “Yes.” The Patriots had borrowed a rather unorthodox Indian warfare, shooting from behind fences and trees, stone walls, and windows, surprising the Crown with a victory.

  Silence held us for a moment, and Hugh moved to a sitting position. He stared at the wall for a long time. “Why did you give your heart to him, Liberty?”

  I placed a hand over my trembling chin. I wanted to claim that I hadn’t willingly given my heart to Alexander, that he—the enemy—had stolen it. But I couldn’t fault Alexander even for that.

  “He . . . I was lonely when I worked at the officers’ house. I was waiting for word of James; I had no family, no friend. Alexander—” Hugh winced, and I changed my words—“the lieutenant was kind to me.”

  “And James’s father?”

  “A scoundrel, I am sorry to say. The lieutenant blamed himself for—for what happened.”

  “As do I.” Hugh exhaled loudly.

  Tentatively, I sought his hand. He did not fight my fingers, but neither did he seem to welcome them. “I am sorry I hurt you, Hugh. The lieutenant . . . yes, I loved him. But there is no future for us. We are enemies in this conflict, and I can no longer allow my heart to fancy that the battle doesn’t matter. After the other morning . . . I see what is of utmost importance. When you fell, I—I couldn’t bear to think I would lose you.”

  I couldn’t pretend to understand the insanity of my heart, how I could possibly love two men at once. But here, now, I was putting Alexander behind me forever. I was choosing love that had proven selfless and sacrificial. I was choosing Hugh’s love. If he would have me.

  A thickness filled my throat. I knew what more I wanted to say to him, what genuine feeling swelled my heart, but what if my confession was rebuffed? What if I laid myself bare before this man and he paid me back with what I deserved? Condemnation. Rebuke. Shame.

  I had proven a foolish woman too many times. This time I would wait patiently for God’s timing and direction.

  22 APRIL 1775

  Dear Miss Caldwell,

  Please accept the enclosed package on behalf of Captain Alexander Smythe. On his sickbed, he requested I write this letter and see that it was sent to you.

  My condolences,

  Second Lieutenant Charles Taylor, King George III’s 47th Regiment of Foot

  19 APRIL 1775

  My Dearest Liberty,

  Another is writing this letter for me, as I lie at death’s door. I could not part this world without somehow closing the separation between us. I will write in a frank manner, for time is short, and I wish to bare my heart to you in hopes you will someday forgive me.

  Even as I write this I am unsure if you ever cared for me. I have made peace with that, for even if you did love me, could ever there have been two lovers more star-crossed than we? Certainly, part of what drew me to you was your vulnerability, your innocence. Yet I fell in love with you for your fire. Your defiance, even. Never a woman with her own mind had I known. You embody the American spirit that the Crown mocks. And yes—now that I know I am not long for this world, I can say I admire that.

  Forgive me, dear one. Forgive me for the vast mistakes I’ve made. Forgive me for not being your rescuer when you needed me that day Philips exposed his vile intentions. Forgive me for selfishly trying to tear you away from the one you now love. Most of all, if ever and at all you can, forgive me for being a part of the demise of your loved ones. I pray your husband was not among those killed this day—a wretched day if ever there were.

  I ask you to accept this ring as the only thing I can give to you at this time. It is a ring that has been in my family for generations—I intended to give it to the woman of my heart, and so I am. If it pains you to think of me when you look upon it, think then on who it points to. For as death nears, I can find only one strength, one consolation. The Lord is my strength, and I pray He be yours also.

  When you look at this ring, think not of the wrong I have done you; think of the right that God has done you. Where I have failed to give you a promising future, I trust the Lord will most certainly prevail. This belief is the only reason I can leave this life—leave you—in peace.

  Farewell, sweet Liberty. I pray when I cross into His arms, it will not seem so very long until we will meet again.

  Yours forever,

  Alexander

  I hid the ring away in a chest of drawers, beneath the depths of James’s old swaddling clothes. I mourned Alexander without show, my tears falling on my feathered pillow at night. I clung to his words, to his last effort to give me comfort in a God I couldn’t help but lean on. For where else could I turn in those days?

  And yet, wretch though I was, I felt a strange freedom in receiving Alexander’s letter. In the moments before I read it, I had expected to feel some lingering devotion, but my heart had grown wiser, truer. I did not need Alexander’s absolution to set me free. On the contrary, receiving it allowed me to set him free.

  Once Hugh healed, he took on the chores of both his and his brother’s homesteads. After sharing dinners in Cora’s grief-torn house, he would often ask me to stroll with him around the green as we had done our first night together in Lexington. There, where he had fought alongside—and lost—his brother and nephew, Hugh and I began again. I did not presume ’twas a conscious decision on his part. And yet it seemed more natural—sweeter, even—than honey from the comb.

  In the little spare time afforded him, Hugh helped his neighbors rebuild the many houses burned by the Regulars on their way back from Concord. And word of another victory for the Patriots came to us—Boston was under siege by the Americans! No soldier of the Crown could get in or out.

  Cora gave up midwifery and refused to let the children out of her sight. Even Nathaniel, who worked alongside his uncle and who was now a man himself, could never flee too far from his mother’s watchful eye.

  I tended to patients as well as overseeing the running of the day-to-day chores. Meals, laundry, garden, cleaning. James by my side. He already knew how to milk the cow and gather eggs.

  I had long since memorized Alexander’s letter. In the days and months following, when the Patriots seized Fort Ticonderoga, when the Second Continental Congr
ess met in Philadelphia, when war was no longer a question but a certainty, I clung to his proclamation that the Lord would be my strength as He had been Alexander’s. I clung to the promise of God to give me a peace and a victory—a freedom—that passed all understanding.

  JUNE 1775

  The heat of a summer day baked the back of my neck as I parted weeds from the tender herbs of my garden. Though the hazy curtain of Cora’s grief had lifted slightly in the past few days, she often chose to stay inside, leaving the garden work to me.

  Many of the militiamen had left for Cambridge Common the day before. Rumors of a surprise attack upon the king’s soldiers, of fortifications being built on Bunker Hill, flew faster than an arrow from a taut bow. I didn’t think Hugh would go—his brother’s family still needed him, grieving as we all were. Though Nathaniel could care for the fields, I didn’t know what another death would do to this family.

  As I battled with both thoughts of war and a particularly stubborn patch of crabgrass, I rolled up my sleeves and sought the shade of the barn in search of a small rake. The cow stomped her foot at my arrival. I breathed in the earthy scent of hay and manure, let the cooler air linger over the sweat on my face. I walked to the corner of the barn, where the tools shared a home with mouse droppings. Rummaging through the tools, I finally found the rake I sought, its metal cold upon my fingers.

  I sensed a presence behind me before I saw its shadow upon the cow’s stall. I gripped the handle of the rake, noting its worth as a weapon if need be, and turned slowly, half-expecting a stray red-coated intruder to demand shelter or food.

  Instead, Hugh stood slouched at the door, the long fowler gun he used for hunting in his bloodied hands, his shirt and brown hair crusted with dirt and sweat, his right knee buckle unfastened.

  I dropped the rake and went to him. “Hugh—you . . . I didn’t think you would go.”

  I put my hand to his head, where a smear of blood marked his forehead. He didn’t flinch at my touch, but I felt his gaze heavy upon me. His hands came up to touch my waist, gentle at first, then a bit more possessive. “Liberty,” he breathed.