The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

Owen frowned. “Don’t try to speak. You need to rest.”

  An attempt at a chuckle bubbled from his mouth. “I’m tired of resting.”

  “Can I get you something? Water, tea?”

  With great effort the man shook his head. “Listen, son. Don’t blame God for your father.” He stopped to catch his breath. “He had naught to do with your father’s actions.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” Owen took the cloth from the man’s forehead. It felt as hot as if it had just been ironed. He dipped it in water.

  Mr. Oakes coughed. “It does matter, son. It caused you to turn away from the only One who can set you free.”

  “Free?” Now it was Owen’s turn to chuckle, though it came out rather bitter. “God’s endless commandments bring anything but freedom. Thou shalt not do this, thou shalt not do that—each one is an iron bar caging in His creation.”

  Mr. Oakes gave a feeble smile. “Do you have children, Owen?”

  Owen glanced at the little ones cuddled beside their mother, forcing down a strange yearning for some of his own. “No.”

  “Imagine you have a son. Would you allow him to play with a pistol without instruction?” Mr. Oakes hesitated, his breath coming fast and ragged. “Would you allow him to wander the forest alone? Take a boat out in stormy seas? Eat poison fruit?”

  Owen placed the fresh cloth on Mr. Oakes’s forehead. No doubt the fever had made him delirious. “Of course not.”

  “Yet what if your son said he wanted his freedom to do as he pleased? That he was tired of all his father’s rules.”

  “He’s just a child and doesn’t know any better. He needs a father’s instruction and protection.”

  Mr. Oakes shifted on the bed and closed his eyes. “Precisely. God is a father … the best father. He knows the things that would do us harm and ruin our lives, so He tells us to stay away from them. His commandments are for our own good, to keep us safe, to help us live abundantly and adventurously.”

  Wind howled against the logs of the cabin, sending the candle flame dancing. Adventurously? Owen rubbed his eyes. “Those rules turned my father into a miserable man who finally shirked every one of them and ran off.”

  “And I’ll wager he’s even more miserable now.” Urgency shone from Mr. Oakes’s eyes. “You’re either a slave to sin and the devil, or you’re a slave to God, Owen. There are no other choices. Yet instead of slaves, God adopts us into His family, and we become His children.”

  Owen groaned inwardly, hoping the man would be quiet. He’d had enough preaching as a boy to last an eternity.

  “God wants you to have a full life, Owen, not restrict you. Whom the Son sets free is free indeed.” Mr. Oakes winced as if in pain then drew a deep breath. “Until you repent and submit to Him, you are a slave to sin and must follow its dictates. Once free, you have a choice. And take it from me, to live for God is the most fulfilling life a man could have. Filled with purpose and joy, not momentary pleasures that leave you empty.”

  “Then why do all the godly people I meet seem so miserable and unable to have fun?” He glanced at Emeline, but then he remembered Ben. Good old Ben, the happiest man he knew. He never acted like he was a slave to anything. He always seemed at peace, kind, and as if he was enjoying his life.

  Mr. Oakes coughed and tore the cloth from his forehead. “Unfortunately, many people are still trying to earn His favor by doing things, obeying rules, checking off some list of good deeds. They sit imprisoned in an iron cage when Jesus has already come and unlocked the door.” He handed Owen the cloth and waved it away.

  Owen stared at it, confused and angry. “After what has happened to you, to your family, how can you say such things?” He glanced over the cabin. “Is this loss, this devastation, adventurous? Why aren’t you furious at God after you gave your life to His service? What if you should—”

  “Die?” Oddly, Mr. Oakes smiled. “Though it pains me to leave my family, I know God will watch out for them. Besides, I’m going to a far better place where I will see them again someday.” He stopped to take a breath. “God’s timing is perfect. If I die, it will be best for me and best for my family.”

  Owen snorted. “You talk crazy, Preacher.”

  “Think on it, son. Promise me.”

  Owen drew a deep sigh and then nodded. “I will.” But only because he could not deny a dying man’s request.

  “Good.” A feeble hand patted Owen’s. “Now leave me to sleep. Or die. Whichever God decides.” He started to close his eyes, but they flew open again. “Do tell Clara how much I love her.”

  “I will.” Owen leaned his head in his hands, his thoughts awhirl. He tried to stay awake to ponder the man’s words, but exhaustion lured him to sleep. Sometime later, he woke with a start, his head jerking backward, his eyes blinking to focus. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced over the cabin. Everyone was still asleep. Even Mr. Oakes. The man lay still … quiet … not even a breath lifted his chest. Suddenly a light rose from his body and drifted upward. Owen closed his eyes and rubbed them. He must be dreaming. But when he looked again, the light drifted to hover over Mrs. Oakes and the children snuggled up together in the corner. Then it floated upward through the roof and disappeared.

  Owen knew what he would find before he reached for Mr. Oakes’s hand.

  It was cold as death.

  CHAPTER 20

  Emeline stood at the foot of the grave, arm wrapped around Mrs. Oakes, doing her best to hold up the poor woman. Amos stood on her other side, his face hidden beneath his oversized hat. Sweet Abigail lay sleeping in Owen’s strong arms, her golden curls nestled against his neck.

  The rain had stopped, though the skies were as gray and somber as the mood. A wooden cross, slightly askew, stood at the head of the resting place of Mr. Abe Oakes. Emeline hadn’t even known his Christian name until after he’d died.

  Dimsmore, of all people, held the prayer book out before him, cleared his throat, and read.

  “ ‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God in his wise providence to take out of this world the soul of our deceased brother, Mr…. Mr….’ ” Dimsmore looked up, more in frustration than shame.

  Emeline wanted to fling mud at the man. “Mr. Abe Oakes.”

  “Mr. Oakes,” Dimsmore continued. “ ‘We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose …’ ”

  Sobs racked through Mrs. Oakes’s body, and she grew limp in Emeline’s arms. Finally, they both slid to their knees, mud soaking through their gowns as Dimsmore continued, his tone heartless.

  “ ‘… And the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and made like unto his own glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.’ ”

  “Amen,” everyone added, and Dimsmore shut the book and ambled away, Mr. Ryne following behind.

  Owen came to stand beside Amos and wrapped an arm around the boy, who was trying far too hard to be strong. They all remained, saying nothing, existing somewhere between acceptance and despondency, time and eternity. After several minutes, the sun broke through the clouds and speared a ray of golden light onto the cross at the head of the grave. Mrs. Oakes looked up, tears streaming down her red, swollen face, wisps of her brown hair fluttering beneath her bonnet.

  None of them could take their eyes off the light, for there was something about it, the way it sparkled and glittered and swirled, that made it seem almost alive and not from this place. Mrs. Oakes stopped crying and wiped the tears from her face.

  “Look, Mama.” Amos pointed to a white dove flying down from above. It landed on the cross.

  Emeline could hardly believe her eyes. She glanced up at Owen, who stared at the scene in awe.

  Mrs. Oakes lifted her hands in the air. “Praise You, Father, for You have comforted me in my sorrow.” She continued to worship God with
exclamations of praise and snippets of songs. A huge smile lit up Amos’s face even as Abigail woke up in Owen’s arms. He set her down, and she ran into her mother’s embrace. Mrs. Oakes drew her children close, and the three of them laughed and kissed one another.

  Emeline had never seen the likes of this at any funeral she’d attended. Even Dimsmore and Mr. Ryne stared at them from the distance.

  The dove took flight, and the sunlight retreated into a cloud. Though Mrs. Oakes’s face was still swollen from crying, there was a new sparkle in her eyes and a glow about her that set Emeline aback.

  “How can you be so happy?” she asked her.

  “Of course I am sad to see my Abe leave us, but God reminded me of where he is and that I will see him again.” She glanced between Emeline and Owen, no doubt sensing their skepticism. “God shone His light on the cross to remind me of the sacrifice His Son, Jesus, paid for us so that after death, we would have new life with Him. The dove? That was the Holy Spirit reminding me that God is always with me and will never forsake me.”

  Owen said not a word, though Emeline could tell his thoughts were spinning. Truth be told, so were hers even as a flood of tears threatened to burst free. How wonderful of God to do such a thing! But of course, why wouldn’t He bless this God-fearing family?

  Taking Mrs. Oakes’s arm, she led her toward the house.

  “We must leave posthaste,” Dimsmore announced from across the yard, where he was packing his knapsack.

  Ignoring him, Emeline settled Mrs. Oakes and the children inside, then stormed out the front door toward Dimsmore. Mr. Ryne and Owen stood by his side.

  “We can’t very well leave this poor woman to have her baby alone.”

  Dimsmore fisted his hands at his hips and groaned. “First, it was the man being sick. Now it’s the woman. What’s next, the kids? Listen, I’m sorry for what happened to this family, but this is war. There are always casualties.” He glanced into the gray skies. “The rain has stopped, and we’re on our way to Baltimore today, or I’m going to report Masters here for dereliction of duty and you, Miss Baratt, for treason. We have only five more days to get the information back to Captain Blackwell and ultimately to Major-General Ross and Admiral Cockburn. And I, for one, don’t intend to disappoint them.”

  Owen ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Emeline. “He’s right. We must get going.”

  She wanted to slap them all in the face. But proper ladies didn’t do such things.

  “We’ll check on them on the way back,” Owen added.

  “We will do no such thing.” Dimsmore’s face crinkled into a ball of disgust. “Miss Baratt has turned you into a goose-livered sow.”

  Owen took a step toward him. “You’ll watch your mouth, Dimsmore. I’m still in command here.”

  Dimsmore gripped the hilt of his knife, his face and eyes as hard as granite. “Until I deem otherwise, sir. I’ve been authorized to relieve you of your command should you exhibit any sympathy toward our enemy.”

  Owen didn’t move, not even a flinch of his lips or jaw. Could that be true? Did Captain Blackwell suspect her or even Owen?

  But they didn’t have time to think about it when a mind-numbing scream blared from the cabin.

  “That’s good, Clara.” Emeline dabbed a cloth over the woman’s heated face. “You’re doing well. The baby’s almost here.” Emeline had no idea what she was doing. She’d never birthed a baby before, never even seen it done. Proper ladies didn’t witness such things. And though terror stabbed every one of her nerves when the woman had gone into labor, she knew she was the only one who could help.

  It had been four hours since she’d thrown everyone, including the children, from the cabin, stoked the fire, boiled water, and made some tea. But what else could she do for the poor woman who now lay on the bed where her husband died not hours before?

  The pains came again. So soon? Clara gripped the bedposts above her head and screamed in agony. Her face twisted so tight, it became unrecognizable.

  Emeline felt helpless. “What can I do?” she said after the pain subsided.

  “Nothing … please …” Clara breathed out. “Please, just stay. When you see the baby’s head, hold it and help the rest come out, then cut the cord.”

  Cut the cord? Emeline gulped. Of course. She searched near the hearth for a knife then held it over the flames before wrapping it in a clean cloth and laying it beside the bed.

  Clara’s breath billowed rapidly. Another pain already? “It’s coming now,” she panted. “I’m going to push.”

  Emeline closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. Lord, help me. Don’t let this woman or her baby die. Squaring her shoulders, she eased onto the bottom of the bed as Clara propped herself up on her elbows and pushed with all her might. Her face became a lump of red bloated flesh. Several minutes passed. She didn’t take a breath, didn’t breathe. Fie! Please don’t let her die, Lord!

  Finally, the woman exhaled. The force of it sent her shooting back onto the bed. She let out an agonizing wail, caught her breath, and then instantly she was up on her elbows again, pushing so hard, Emeline feared she’d explode.

  But then miracle of miracles, the crown of a tiny head appeared.

  One more giant push and the entire head was out. Emeline cradled it in her hands. Another push and a baby slid onto the clean cloth Emeline had prepared.

  Clara sank onto the bed like a deflated balloon, but not too deflated to say, “Boy or girl?”

  Unbidden tears streamed down Emeline’s face as she quickly cut the cord and wrapped the child in the cloth. “Boy,” she laughed and cried all at once. “It’s a boy … and he’s beautiful.”

  Clara reached out, and Emeline laid the babe against her chest. Tears of joy replaced those of pain, and Emeline knelt before the bed as they both cried and laughed and stared at the miracle God had created.

  “Thank you, Emeline. Thank you.”

  Emeline clutched Clara’s hand and squeezed. “I’m so glad I could help.”

  An hour later, after Emeline had cleaned everything up, she called Amos and Abigail to meet their new brother. The family snuggled together on the bed while Dimsmore scowled in the corner.

  An hour after that, Emeline knelt before the fire and stirred the batch of chicken stew she’d thrown together after Mr. Ryne had caught another chicken. The man wasn’t much for conversation, but at least he was useful.

  “Smells good.” Owen stooped beside her, his scent of earth and sea and spice temporarily intruding upon the savory smell of the stew. She dared to glance his way, though these days it seemed unsafe to do so. For every time she did, something strange happened to her insides … something not so unpleasant. Now as she watched him stare at the fire, his jaw tight and covered with stubble, his dark hair hanging about his face, and firelight dancing in those hazel eyes of his, she couldn’t help but wonder about this man—this enemy who was so kind one minute and stern the next, a mighty warrior who was gentle with children, a man who always seemed troubled behind those intense eyes of his.

  “You’re an amazing woman, Emeline,” he finally said, glancing her way.

  She turned back to the stew and gave it another turn, ignoring the thrill rushing through her at his words.

  “Delivering that babe.” He shook his head.

  “I had no choice. I did what anyone would do.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” He smiled. “No English lady I’ve ever met would be able to do half the things you do, cooking over a fire, traipsing through forests, patching wounds, and delivering babies.” He chuckled. “Oh, and lest we forget, spying for one’s country during war.”

  Emeline sighed. “Perhaps, as a lady, I should be doing none of those things, except maybe the cooking.”

  “And what book of rules did you get that from?”

  Emeline had no idea, neither did she wish to discuss it. At least night had fallen, and they were unable to leave yet again. But how could she abandon this lady with a new baby and two chi
ldren? Perhaps she could somehow come back to help her after she delivered the British plans.

  Which reminded her. She looked at Owen. She still needed to discover those plans.

  A baby’s cry brought both their gazes to Clara.

  Laying down the spoon, Emeline rose and went to assist.

  “He needs a change, I’m afraid.” Clara handed the baby to Emeline. “If you’ll hand me a nappy and a wet cloth.”

  “I’m happy to do it. You rest.”

  “I want to learn how.” Amos leapt from the bed.

  “Me too!” Abigail scrambled after him.

  Emeline stared down at them and smiled. “Very well. We shall all do it together. Here.” She spun and handed the babe to Owen.

  “Wait, I don’t—” His clipped words were left hanging in the air as she placed the child in his arms.

  Smiling, she went to retrieve a nappy and wet cloth, but when she turned around, the sight of him froze her in place. The babe was but a speck in his muscular arms, yet he held him with such tender care, staring down at him with a look of love and protection.

  And Emeline suddenly wondered what it would be like to have children with this man.

  Preposterous! She didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want to settle down. And she most certainly didn’t want to marry an enemy of her country.

  Mr. Ryne burst through the door and slammed it behind him, his frightened gaze skittering over them. “It’s the British. A band of them are heading this way.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Two British soldiers barreled through the front door before Owen could hand the baby to Mrs. Oakes and grab his gun. One of them clutched Mr. Ryne by the scruff of the neck. They leveled muskets at everyone as more men piled in behind, followed by an officer—a captain with a pointy nose and even pointier eyes placed far too close together.

  Owen growled. What had Mr. Ryne been doing outside, sleeping?

  “We’ll be taking over your house, rebels!” The captain sneered as his gaze raked over them.

  Through the open door, Owen saw at least a dozen troops filling the dark yard in front of the house. Mrs. Oakes whimpered behind him, no doubt worried for her baby, still snuggled in Owen’s arms.