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.
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 Congress 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.
I searched those deep brown pools. His mouth trembled and I let my hand fall to his sticky, dirtied cheek.
“Liberty . . . I want joy. I am tired of regrets and grudges. I’m tired of looking at you and wishing things had been different. I am ready—if you are—to make things different.” He licked his sun-cracked lips, swallowed. “You’ve changed. I see a peace in you I long for. What I saw this morning—what I took part in . . . it made me realize I don’t want to live another day without seeking joy. And when I think of joy . . . when I think of a life worth living . . . I think of you. Of James. Of a future and a family.”
I blinked, drew in a shaky breath as I tried to comprehend all he had said. I let my hand fall to his damp collar. “I’ve missed you,” I whispered.
His mouth covered mine in a needy kiss. He drank me in with longing, and I sank into him, loneliness finding company in his safe embrace, in his insistent kisses.
He came up for breath, planted his lips on my nose. “I know things will not be perfect. We are flawed, the both of us, but I do believe with God’s help we can make a marriage succeed. Please, Liberty, say you’ll come and live as my wife in the house I built for you. For us.”
I caught my breath, tried to wade through his intensity. I pushed away, slightly, seeking words for what I needed to say. “You once told me a marriage must be based on trust.”
Hugh’s eyes clouded, and I wondered if, in his fragile state of mind, he wasn’t yet ready to claim me and my honesty. Perhaps he wished to remain in a safe fantasy, to move forward without looking at the past.
I felt him begin to shut down from me. His hands dropped from where they held my waist. I wanted to pick them up—dried blood and all—and plant them back on my middle. Ground him.
I wrapped my arms around myself instead, pressed them to my stomach. “I have not always been honest with you, Hugh. And I don’t want to enter into this marriage with any more fallacies between us.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, the dry dirt on his face breaking away in pieces.
“I received news of Alexander’s death not long ago. ’Twas after our talk at Buckman’s. He sent me a ring that has been between us. I have it still.” I allowed my words to sink in before I placed a hand on his arm. “Hugh, I meant what I said that day. I am ready to give myself to you—all of me, to you. No more looking back. I am so sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you. When I think of my future, I can imagine nothing better than sharing it with you. Is there any way you can forgive me, that we could mend the broken trust between us?”
“He is dead. . . .”
I looked at the ground. “Yes.”
“And . . . if he were not?”
I felt peace with the honest answer I would give. “Long before I learned of his death, I knew I loved you. My heart has relinquished him entirely. Were he standing alive in this very room, I would still wish to spend the rest of my life with you.”
He squinted beneath the setting sun, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he crushed me to his chest, pressed his face to the hair alongside my mobcap.
He brushed his lips against my cheek. “There is nothing . . . better my ears should hear.” His mouth moved toward my lips, parting them with a gentle sweetness that built in intensity. Then he was kissing me long and deep and full. There was healing in that kiss. Healing from my past, healing for my future.
I need not have worried about the intimacies of marriage reopening old wounds. Instead, when I gave myself to my husband the night we were wed, I found his closeness to be a balm to my wounded soul. With the sun long tucked in for the night and the crickets playing a melody especially for us, I shared my entire being with Hugh, finding in his arms not only pleasure and rest but freedom.