Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  He shrugged. “Honestly, it’s a little strange. Not in a creepy way. But I’m not sure I totally understand why you have such a strong stake in my family’s ring.”

  That made two of us. I tried to mentally peel back the complicated attachment I had with the ring. From the moment I’d woken in the hospital with it clutched in my blood-crusted fingernails, I’d allowed it entrance to my soul. I sought the band at my neck, ran a finger along the thin chain securing it above my heart.

  I shifted in my seat. “I’m going to be honest here and hope it doesn’t scare you.”

  He nodded encouragement.

  “You didn’t just save me once. You saved me hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.” I stared into my untouched coffee cup. “Every time I find myself reliving that terror, the worst moments of my life. Maybe my dwelling on it is unhealthy. But you and the ring—you’re the happy ending of that nightmare. When I didn’t want to set foot out my door for fear of what could happen anytime or anywhere, I’d remind myself that for every crazy person out there ready to hurt innocent people, there was a person like you. And your ring was a tangible reminder of that. You and the ring were the two sides of the hinge that held me together.” I blew out a long breath. “No pressure, of course.”

  He chuckled, but it was stilted, and I felt the gravity behind it. When he spoke, his words were slow, measured, as if he feared breaking me with them. “I’m glad I helped you that day . . . and I’m glad the ring reminds you of the good in the world. But . . .”

  “What? Say it.”

  “I’m not sure I can be a happy ending.” He rubbed the back of his neck. I glimpsed the cross tattoo on the inside of his forearm. “I’m just a regular guy.”

  “You’re right. I’ve made that day into some kind of fairy tale with a magic talisman and a knight in shining Red Sox sweatshirt, and that’s not right.”

  “I didn’t say it’s wrong. How can I know, really, what you went through?” He swiped a hand over his face. “Did you read To Kill a Mockingbird in high school?”

  I nodded.

  “There’s a scene where Atticus tells Scout that you never really know a person until you climb into their skin and walk around in it. That’s what I’m trying to do here, Annie. Understand you. Get to know more about you.” He traced the handle of his coffee cup with a finger, then looked directly at me with new resolve. “It’s my turn to be honest. . . . You fascinate me. Maybe it’s the brief traumatic history we share, maybe it’s your attachment to my family’s ring, maybe it’s more—I don’t know. But I’m not some fantasy hero that pulled you to safety that day, and I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  I inched my fingers across to his. A squeeze would have seemed too forward, but the moment called for some sort of physical reassurance. I brushed the calloused skin of his hands with my own. I wanted to reassure him that neither he nor the ring could disappoint me, that they’d both already pulled me through the worst life had to offer, but I wasn’t entirely certain of the truth of such words, so I stayed silent.

  After another tense moment of quiet, I pulled my hand away. “Maybe we should look into your family genealogy. They have tons of stuff online now. There has to be a way to figure out if you were actually related.”

  “And what her story is.”

  I swiped my finger over my phone, examined the rest of the poem. “It seems she’s writing about a British soldier. This soldier—she knew him somehow. Maybe even loved him? The fifth of March . . .” I thought back to the painting in the Union Oyster House, the burst of gunfire from the man in the scarlet coat, the date in fine script above. “That was the date of the Boston Massacre. It sounds like maybe he died that night.”

  Brad shook his head. “No Regulars died that night. Only colonists.”

  I looked at the next stanza. “Maybe in April, then? A month after the Boston Massacre?” I grimaced. “Or it could be any April up until the year she wrote it. But it sure does sound like he died.”

  “‘April on the Green.’ Reminds me of the Battle at Lexington.”

  “And what about the ring? How did she wind up with a ring from a British soldier?” The waiter brought us the bill. I reached for my purse, but Brad snatched up the bill and shooed me away.

  “No denying the ring’s there. Though it seems twofold—like she’s playing around with words. You know, the real ring, and the victory of freedom.”

  I held up the gold circle at my neck. “Cool to think this could be the very ring she’s talking about, but it’s killing me that we might never know for certain.” I slumped against my chair.

  He lightly kicked my foot with his. “Don’t tell me you’re not up for a challenge. Come on, you’re a marathon runner. You can’t give up that easy.”

  I didn’t correct him, though I knew otherwise. I used to run with that kind of purpose. But for two years I’d been running and hiding from my challenges, imposing silence on Lydia and her family.

  I ran my finger over the indented crest of the ring. I didn’t know if I was strong enough to change things, but I was tired of letting fear be in charge. I wanted to cling to something extraordinary. I wanted to know the ring’s story, and I wanted to discover it with Brad.

  He looked at me, probed gently with those green eyes that were becoming familiar and comfortable. I was thankful he had accepted my earlier honesty without judgment. I was thankful he was willing to continue exploring with me. I sucked in a breath and pushed aside my doubts.

  “I’m in.”

  MARCH 7, 1770

  The parade of redcoats boarding British convoys off of Long Wharf made my heart burst with a tune akin to freedom. And yet it had come at a heavy price. Within moments, the tune mellowed to a melancholy, mournful rhythm. True, the redcoats were gone. But what they’d stolen, I would never be able to retrieve. How could I go on choosing life beneath this heavy cloak of darkness? Only the memory of my brother prodded me to leave the warmth of my bed, to pull on petticoats and skirts.

  For today, James would be my purpose. When I felt defeat this day, I would tamp it down with the memory of my brother’s honor.

  I waited until the ship had pulled away to Castle Island, each member of the 29th Regiment on board, before emerging from my room at the Golden Ball tavern. I’d requested a window facing the sea, the heavy sterling in my valise ensuring I would obtain the room I wanted or look elsewhere.

  I pulled my cape tight around my shoulders and affixed my cap, careful to hide the ugly bruise forming from the blows the captain had given me. I felt for the heaviness of the captain’s silver and whistle and the bold outline of the lieutenant’s ring beneath the secret pocket I’d sewn into my dress the day before. Only when I’d placed the signet ring in with the nine sterling and closed it up did I feel a twinge of remorse that I had stolen from the lieutenant.

  I brushed away the compunction with an image of James’s body convulsing on the snowy ground in front of the Town House. I brushed it away at the remembrance of the captain possessing my body. As if he owned me. As if I were nothing.

  In stealing, I had done what I needed to survive. I had played a small part in the Cause James had died for, fighting against the king and his soldiers.

  The somber mood of the town fell around me as I hastened to the Gazette. I pushed open the doors. The smell of fresh ink, tobacco, and sweat wafted over me. A small group of men—some standing, some sitting—milled about the place. I recognized the stout build of Mr. John Adams and his cousin Samuel. Sitting at one of the desks was Mr. Revere, the silversmith. It appeared I’d walked into a gathering of the Sons. With the regiments gone, they were brazen enough to meet in broad daylight.

  “Can I help you, miss?” A gaunt young man came toward me. “Josiah Quincy.”

  I breathed deeply, the weight in my pocket and the worthy death of my brother giving me confidence in the task before me. “Yes, sir. I’m here to claim my brother’s body. I was told he would be here.”

  “Your brother’s body .
. .”

  “I am the sister of James Caldwell, sir.”

  Recognition dawned on his lean, handsome face. “Please then, Miss Caldwell, accept my deepest sympathies regarding your brother’s death.”

  Samuel Adams came forward, extending a palsied hand. “We all offer our condolences, Miss Caldwell, for your brother’s most worthy sacrifice.”

  Now, standing here with these men who had stirred up my brother’s patriotic fervor, I wondered whether his sacrifice would mean anything a month from now. Yet I bit my lip to keep from arguing with the man. Didn’t I, too, try to convince myself that James’s death had not been in vain?

  Mr. Adams continued, “I can assure you we are at this very moment planning a most honorable funeral for the four who bravely died Monday night.”

  I glanced at the surface of the desk the men surrounded. Beside Mr. Revere’s ink-stained hand lay an engraving of some sort. I glimpsed only the Town House, redcoats, and smoke.

  I ground my teeth. “That appears to be the most peculiar plan for a funeral I have ever laid eyes on.”

  Mr. Revere’s face reddened. Mr. Samuel Adams laughed. “You are a sharp one, Miss Caldwell. And yet it is our job to ensure your brother’s death is not wasted, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Though I did not have complete understanding of their plan, I could do naught but agree with the statement. “I understand, Mr. Adams. And yet I cannot help but fear my brother’s funeral will be a show of politics rather than a memorial of his life, if left to you.”

  Mr. Adams clenched his deformed hands behind him and stared at the floor. When he spoke, his tone was soft. “I dare hope it can be both, Miss Caldwell. I dare hope that is what James would have wanted.”

  Blast him, I knew it was. I sighed. “Indeed.”

  Mr. Quincy’s mouth tightened. “Unfortunately, Miss Caldwell, your brother’s body is not here.”

  I clenched my jaw, inwardly ridiculing myself for leaving James with a stranger. “I—I see. I had spoken with a man—”

  “Mr. Gregory.”

  “Yes.”

  “He did come here with your brother; rest easy, miss. But it was decided his body would be prepared for burial at the home of Captain Morton.”

  “Captain Morton? I’m sorry, sir. James was lost to me for months. I have little knowledge of his life at sea, nor here in Boston.”

  “He served on Captain Morton’s vessel,” Mr. Quincy said. “The captain came yesterday to request that they prepare your brother’s body. Apparently your brother was close to the Mortons.”

  I tried to hide my emotion at this unexpected news. There was so much I didn’t know about James’s new life. So much he had chosen not to share with me during our brief time together the week before.

  “Might you tell me where Captain Morton resides? I should like to pay a visit.”

  Mr. Quincy directed me to Ship Street in the North End. I thanked him and turned to leave.

  “Miss Caldwell?”

  I spun, caught the attention of Mr. Adams. “Our purpose for tomorrow’s funeral is to honor your brother and the other three who died beneath this tyranny. And I vow to do everything to ensure James’s death was not in vain. I pray you see it as such.”

  Because James would have wanted me to, I gave a gracious nod to Mr. Adams and to the rest of the Sons in the room. “Thank you, sirs. Thank you for your efforts.”

  Mr. Adams gave a slight bow in my direction. “Miss Caldwell, if there is anything I can ever do for you, please do not hesitate to call on me again.”

  Although the next day was market day, shop signs read Closed, and the latched shutters indicated a manner more solemn than any Sabbath. No rush and rattle of carts and horses, no noisy bartering with vendors, no thump of hand looms echoing from the fabric store. Even the streets had been cleared of manure and washed. Captain Morton’s nigra driver pulled James’s coffin in a one-horse shay. I walked behind James’s body in my go-to-meeting dress, Captain and Mrs. Morton behind me.

  James’s procession converged with the three others on King Street, where my brother’s lifeblood had seeped into the snow just days earlier. I marveled at the immense press of people walking six abreast through the narrow streets. Behind us followed a train of carriages carrying the Boston privileged. I had not realized so many people existed in the colony, never mind the town. Certainly more people were gathered this day than were ever together on this continent on any previous occasion.

  And all for James, and his Cause.

  The bells of Old South cried out, then those of King’s Chapel, followed by Christ Church, until all the church bells in Boston rang out a cry of mourning for their dead. Beyond the harbor, bells from the outlying towns echoed back in a solemn splendor that I felt did indeed honor my brother’s sacrifice.

  James was laid beside Christopher Seider in Old Granary, and after the crowd dispersed, I stood alone before my brother’s coffin. I wished I had thought to bring a special offering to throw into the dirt above the wood of his final resting place—the petal of a flower, a note or poem of meaning, a trinket of Grandmother’s. But I had nothing.

  I felt the heavy contents of my pocket and my stomach lurched with possibilities. I did have something to offer my brother. I looked around. A few still stood paces away in the graveyard, but no one seemed to pay much attention to a lone grieving sister. I crouched to the ground, searched beneath my petticoats until I felt the pocket I’d sewn. I found a corner and pulled at the stitches, grateful my handiwork wasn’t as tight and skilled as Grandmother’s.

  I shook the contents into my hands, putting the sterling into the pocket of my cape.

  In my hand lay the lieutenant’s signet ring and the captain’s whistle. I vacillated, wondering which the more worthy to accompany my brother to eternity.

  Truthfully, I would have liked to cast the lieutenant’s ring into the pit. I felt guilt when I looked at its radiant beauty, the bloodstones in the shape of an anchor and horn above his surname, the Latin that boldly proclaimed that victory belonged to those with strength.

  But this could not be about me.

  I pocketed the ring. The whistle, symbolic of the men who had taken James’s life, would be better suited beneath the ground for all ages.

  I imagined the captain’s ghastly lips on the silver, an image that recalled all he’d taken from me. I ran my fingernail over the engraving pressed into the metal—the king’s emblem: the lion and the unicorn flanking the crest, proclaiming in Old French, Honi soit qui mal y pense.

  Shame upon him who thinks evil of it.

  Evil of the king, evil of the soldiers who had pressed their mighty hands down upon the throat of our town. Had my brother thought evil of them? Likely. I certainly had, along with many in Boston.

  Shame upon him who thinks evil of it.

  The words tormented me as I thought of those who would stamp my brother a traitor, to be shamed forever. I would not think on the notion. Instead, I let the whistle fall from my hands. It rolled down the dirt to the bottom of the grave, where it landed with a clink against the foot of the coffin.

  There, my brother’s feet would trample the monarchy for all eternity.

  WHEN WE WERE LITTLE, Lydia and I used to play hide-and-seek on my grandparents’ farm. Sunsets painted the sky pinks and purples, and chickens were given free range on the sprawling homestead where Gram and Pop lived. Best of all was the massive barn filled with Pop’s many collectibles. The sagging, tired building was a maze of obscure spots in which to conceal myself, and I would inevitably go there to hide from my sister.

  One day, as Lydia leaned against a porch column of our grandparents’ farmhouse, counting steadily, eyes burrowed in the crook of her arm, I ran as fast as my six-year-old legs could carry me to the barn in the backyard. Long, dry grass brushed my bare skin, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle filled the air. Once I reached the barn, I waded through transistor radios, old furniture, movie posters featuring Audrey Hepburn and James Dean, a couple tackle
boxes of fishing lures, and oil bottles, until finally I spotted the perfect hiding spot—a sturdy wooden trunk. Its hinges were tarnished, and iron bands studded with large brass buttons ran along its side. It was beautiful. And best of all, neither Lydia nor I had ever hidden there before. She’d never find me.

  As my scrawny arms lifted the heavy top, I heard Lydia call out, “Ready or not, here I come!”

  I waited a second for my eyes to adjust to the dark so I could be certain there were no unwanted guests in my hiding place; then, when I was sure of its vacancy, I hopped in, allowing the lid to fall shut behind me.

  I muffled my excited giggles into my hands, my knees drawn up to my chest. I couldn’t best my twelve-year-old sister at much, but this time I would certainly win. The thought made me giggle all the more.

  I heard Lydia come into the barn, the sounds of her footsteps muffled. Something creaked, and then the sound of metal on metal as Lydia searched for me. “I know you’re in here, Annie.” She schooled her voice to make it go up and down in an eerie tone that caused me to curl more tightly into a ball.

  She’d give up soon. I hoped so, anyway. The trunk’s interior was becoming stuffy. The backs of my knees and my neck were sticky.

  I didn’t hear her anymore. I breathed in a last musty breath of trunk air and pushed on the lid, careful not to be loud in case she still occupied the barn.

  It didn’t budge.

  In one moment, a game turned into a nightmare. Fear swallowed up my tiny body, and my breaths came in short, rapid spurts. I knocked on the lid. Again. And again.

  “Lydia! Lydia, help!”

  I banged and banged and banged. I’d never felt so alone. I was certain no one would ever find me, that I would die within the depths of the trunk and one day, years from now, someone would open it up and find nothing but my bones to prove my existence.