Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  He struggled to push words out. “I only want . . . your well-being.”

  “What is well for me is you.”

  He slid off into sleep, but woke five minutes later in a fit of convulsions. When they finally settled, a telltale rattle of death sounded in his throat. “P—promise me . . .”

  I would not be able to live with myself if I did not give him this final peace. Sobs came hard: choppy and painful, my soul begging God to spare my husband. I moved my head up and down, unwilling to utter the word yes.

  Peace passed over Hugh’s face, then. He slipped into unconsciousness. I slid under the damp covers beside him, positioned his arm around me, and huddled into the safe spot beneath his arm. I hugged his weak body to me and let my tears fall on his shirt.

  When I woke the next morning, his breaths were no more.

  I RUBBED MY temples where the start of a headache formed. “Where else is there to look, Brad?”

  For two weekends we’d looked for more information on Alexander Smythe or Liberty or Hugh Gregory or anything Lexington, but to no avail—online, at the archives, and now at the genealogical society.

  “Why don’t we look in the Lexington manuscripts they have on record from that time? Maybe we’ll find something here, even if there’s nothing on the people we’re looking for.”

  I shrugged, thinking to appease him. “Sure. Whatever you think.”

  We asked a reference librarian to point us in the right direction and tried not to be overwhelmed by the amount of material she gave us.

  Back at the table, we waded through the stack of newspaper clippings; marriage license applications; engagement, marriage, and wedding anniversary announcements; legal, divorce, and funeral notices; and society news. Most interesting were the handful of journals and diaries—some business ledgers, a few personal entries, and quite a bit of personal correspondence.

  Hours went by as we learned the comings and goings of late-eighteenth-century Lexington, Brad and I exchanging pieces of our discoveries. My headache eased as I felt myself drawn in by a people who longed for liberty, a people who were willing to sacrifice for the Cause of freedom.

  Brad slid an opened book toward me. “Look, the journal of Reverend Jonas Clark. It mentions Hugh Gregory.”

  I scanned the entry. “From October 1783.”

  The entry recorded a sort of inner battle for Reverend Clark. It stated that an English spy by the name of William Richards had been discovered in Lexington by Hugh Gregory. Mr. Gregory had received a letter from a British deserter informing him of the actions of a Dr. William Richards during the Revolutionary War. Hugh Gregory had reported the findings to Reverend Clark, though he seemed reluctant to do so, fearing that it may cast his wife in a bad light.

  My pulse sped up at the mention of Liberty. The entry ended with Jonas Clark determining he would send the information of the spy on to Samuel Adams but leave the personal details surrounding the find between himself and Hugh.

  The letter Hugh Gregory received, which incriminated William Richards, was carefully copied in Jonas Clark’s journal following the entry. We read.

  24 SEPTEMBER 1783

  Dear Mr. Gregory,

  I write this knowing you may not read a word and knowing it may be a sin to so much as think to send this letter. And yet my heart cannot rest until I know for certain that Miss Caldwell (Mrs. Gregory) is cared for.

  I grabbed Brad’s arm as I continued reading.

  Now that the war is at an end, I can say that Lexington was home of a British spy, gone by the name of a Dr. William Richards. I received much of my information from him.

  From him I learned that you were the one to strike me that April morning. From him I learned that you were the one to wed Liberty. With sincerest gratitude I wish to thank you for taking care of her. Forgive me; I realize it is not my place and terribly presumptuous, and yet all I ask is one letter—one sentence—stating the welfare of Liberty and that of her son. I do not believe I will ever stop feeling responsible for them, and if that be a sin, may God forgive me.

  I have settled in the mountains of New Hampshire, not feeling a need to return to the mother country when my time to serve the king had ended. Some call me a deserter. And while I cannot call myself an American, I believe I could live with the title “British American.”

  May I allay your fears in stating I never plan to make contact with Liberty. I respect her desires and her deep love for you. ’Tis why I have let her think me dead these passing years.

  One letter, one sentence, is all I ask. Then I will breathe easy and continue to depend on God to put your wife from my mind. His strength will hold me fast, as always.

  Sincerely and not without shame,

  Alexander Smith

  Brad traced the name written at the end of the letter with his finger. “Whoa.”

  “I can’t believe it.” I traced the signature. “Alexander Smythe, Liberty’s soldier. But the British archives said he died at Lexington.”

  “Apparently he kept the fact that he didn’t from the Crown all those years. Probably by changing the spelling of his last name.”

  “Unbelievable,” I whispered. “He did love her, and if we go by the poem, I think we can assume the feeling was mutual.”

  Brad nodded. “Must have been hard for Hugh to receive such a letter . . . harder still to know what to do with the information.”

  I pulled at my bottom lip. “He was a Patriot through and through, though he must have been torn over delivering this into Reverend Clark’s hands.”

  “He felt it was his duty to continue to protect his country. But it seems he and Reverend Clark were close. He probably never felt that his friend would betray his wife by making the information public.”

  I agreed. “Perhaps Hugh and Liberty’s connection to Jonas Clark and Sam Adams has something to do with the poem in the time capsule.”

  “Remember, her brother was one of the first casualties of the revolution. That alone could have been reason enough for Governor Adams to include it.”

  We sat in silence as we read the letter over again. I sat up slightly to cross my leg underneath me, my palms sweaty from the excitement of the find. “So Hugh wounded Alexander at Lexington. Crazy.”

  “Talk about a love triangle. But there it is—our story of the ring, or part of it anyway.”

  “Alexander settled in America. I wonder how much of that had to do with Liberty. . . .”

  I stuck my finger through the ring around my neck, the despair of the story settling in. Perhaps the happy ending of the ring’s story would have to be mine. Maybe Liberty and Alexander never did get a happy ending. “I wonder if Liberty and Alexander ever saw one another again. . . .”

  Brad shook his head. “Strange that Alexander chose not to return to his home country. He would have been a hero, wounded in the first battle of the war.” He shrugged. “Maybe they did meet again.”

  I pointed to the last line of Alexander’s letter. His strength will hold me fast.

  “I like that. It ties into the ring, too. You know, depending on God to control this uncontrollable life.”

  I thought of the morning of the race, how the ring had helped me see the very thing Alexander spoke of. I leaned over, planted a kiss on Brad’s lips.

  “What was that for?”

  “For giving me the ring that day. For letting me share in this journey.”

  He trailed a finger along the inside of my arm. “Believe me, Annie, it is entirely my pleasure.”

  We continued reading the reverend’s journals. Most of the entries included excitement over a newly birthed America, concerns for his flock, prayers for his wife and children. Hugh and Liberty were mentioned several times.

  James Gregory has taken a wife of his own from Concord. A finer man one could not know.

  It is with great gladness that we learn that Hugh and Liberty Gregory will be expecting a babe this year. They have reminded me of Abraham and Sarah in their patient waiting.

  Wi
th a heavy heart, I must report that I have conducted the funeral of my good friend and faithful member, Hugh Gregory, who died of yellow fever weeks before his wife was to give birth. I only pray mother and child remain well.

  “Oh, poor things.” Liberty’s pain came across to me from the simple words on the page. What would it mean for her to be a single mother in this new land?

  We continued reading, learned that Michael Gregory was born to Liberty healthy and well.

  I swallowed a lump in my throat. “After all those years of being wed, Hugh never even got to meet his son.”

  The journal entries came to an abrupt stop soon after the announcement of the birth of Michael Gregory. It appeared we would get no more answers from Jonas Clark.

  “We should look for another marriage announcement to see if Liberty married again. We never did a search this late in the eighteenth century.”

  “Do you think she could have found Alexander?”

  Brad wiggled a pointer finger in the crook of my elbow. “Chances are next to nothing that Liberty and Alexander got together again after all those years. There’s too much against them—he’s a deserter, she ran with the Patriots. Say they did know one another around the time of the Boston Massacre . . . by the time Hugh died, more than twenty-five years had gone by. Surely Alexander wed within that time too. And what about poor Hugh? The guy sounds like a good man. I’m not sure Liberty would be so quick to betray his memory by marrying a Regular. That would have been heavy stuff back then.”

  I mulled over Brad’s words. “But none of this explains one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Why Alexander’s ring was the object handed down generation after generation. Why I’m the one holding it here, now, in 2015.”

  FALL 1795–SPRING 1796

  In my grief, I ignored the letter on the ground. I left it there while I cleaned Hugh’s body for burial, while I washed the sheets and laid him out, while the weeks passed after my husband lay in the ground.

  I walked aimlessly over the hard planks of the floor during that time, my footsteps echoing in the rooms. The hearth, once giving warmth and light, too often felt chilly. The phantom laughter of James and a much-younger Hugh as one clunked down his king sideways, admitting defeat in chess, haunted me. The canning of preserves, smattered stains on clothes and aprons, candles softly wavering in the night. A gentle kiss, a tender moment, a family to love.

  Cora helped deliver my child, and as Hugh and I had already decided, I named our newborn after Hugh’s nephew who had died that horrible day on the green all those years earlier. James and his wife came for two days to help with the chores. When all left, I doted on my babe, who resembled Hugh in every way possible—from the dimple on his chin to his slightly oversize ears.

  When Michael turned three months old, I faced the stark reality that I could not plant and care for the house and a newborn by myself. Even Cora, who had plenty of children to help her and made a decent amount of money midwifing, had taken a husband after her mourning time.

  I finally picked up Alexander’s letter to Hugh, which had nestled itself under the bed I’d shared with my husband, dust collecting in its folds. I read it over, wondered at the Brit’s audacity to write my husband, wondered at his audacity to allow me to think him dead.

  Truth be told, I’d done fairly well not dwelling on Alexander. A few times during the early part of our marriage, I’d dreamed of him, leaving me to fight off images of him in my mind’s eye for days. But the Lord would help me push him aside and cling to life. To Hugh.

  I can honestly say I had no regrets over our twenty years together.

  Now, though, I had bound myself with a promise. A promise I wasn’t certain I could keep. I hadn’t seen Alexander in twenty years. Why should I think he had not taken a wife since his last letter? Why should I think he would even want to wed me and care for my fatherless son? This was not like all those years ago. I was no longer a spry, lovely girl with supple skin and smooth curves. He no longer had need to feel responsible for me.

  In the end, I chose to write him, only to keep my promise to Hugh.

  8 MAY 1796

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  I write this letter reluctant to make a fool of myself. It has been many years. I hope all is well with you and your family.

  I must make clear my reasons for writing. I write only to fulfill a promise to my husband, made on his deathbed this past harvest. I expect nothing from you and find nothing to forgive in any false notions of our past. I am in fact very happy to hear you are alive and well, and practically an American, I would say! My new babe, Michael, was born beneath the American flag.

  This ring has traveled a circuit between us more times than I care to count. And so it is with a humble heart that once more, I give it back to you. Please, give it to your wife, or perhaps one of your children.

  If you should happen to have none, then perhaps it will find its way back to me one day soon. As you have written in a previous letter to my husband, He will hold us fast. I am trusting in this, no matter the outcome of this post. Thank you, Alexander, for sharing your faith with me in that final letter. Thank you for pointing me to a strength I could never possess myself.

  Warmly,

  Liberty Gregory

  THE SUN’S DESCENT behind the genealogical society reminded us that our time would soon be cut short once again. Brad and I ran a few searches for Liberty, limiting the time frame to the 1790s.

  Nothing.

  “Maybe search Jonas Clark? If Liberty got married again, he would have likely performed the wedding.”

  “That would be in the church records, though. Probably not here.” Brad typed in Reverend Clark’s name, along with our target time period. “We’ll give it a try, anyway.”

  Three results came up under Jonas Clark’s name, but no church records. The first result was a Sons of the American Revolution membership application. The second, a newspaper extract that looked to pronounce his death, and the last—another newspaper extract from the Columbian Centinel. The catalog pointed us to the microfilm floor.

  Brad and I made copies of Jonas Clark’s entries, gathered our things, and took the elevator to the fourth floor of the society. We signed in, grabbed the correct microfilm from the back wall, and put the film in the machine and scrolled to the correct file number.

  I didn’t expect to find anything having to do with Liberty, but my heart trembled at the promising black-and-white headline. It was a newspaper article from the Columbian Centinel, titled Governor Adams Attends Wedding of Regular.

  My mouth grew dry as I sensed we were about to find the rest of our answers. The rest of Liberty’s story. Brad put an arm around me, holding me up as we read the article.

  In one of the last events of his governorship, Governor Samuel Adams surprised the state of Massachusetts by attending a rather untraditional wedding in Lexington last week. The groom was a former soldier of the Crown. Alexander Smith became a resident of the state of New Hampshire shortly after the end of the war. He and his bride, Liberty Gregory, have both survived the death of spouses. While they knew one another at the time of Britain’s occupation of Boston, it was not until last year that they reunited. Mr. Smith told the Centinel that in marrying his first love, he had been the recipient of God’s tremendous grace. “This is a second chance, a new beginning for Mrs. Gregory—Mrs. Smith, rather—and I.”

  Liberty Gregory is the sister of James Caldwell, one of the first casualties of the war, who perished in the Boston Massacre. She told me that it was her late husband’s wish that she seek Mr. Smith out after his death. It is worth noting that Hugh Gregory was an avid Patriot, one of the men who stood their ground at Lexington in April 1775.

  When the Centinel questioned the governor in his reason for attending such an unorthodox wedding, he replied as such: “The Sons and Daughters of Liberty have fought the good fight for our freedom. We have won that fight. As Mrs. Smith can attest, and as I agree, it is time we lay down old grudges
and begin anew. In this day, in this marriage, I see not only two hearts united but a symbol of two countries that must continue to seek peace. Both Mr. and Mrs. Smith have borne tremendous loss. It is time to move forward together, in freedom.”

  The groom bestowed upon his wife a gift of a signet ring after the nuptials, which were performed by Mrs. Smith’s late husband’s dear friend Reverend Jonas Clark. Mrs. Smith shewed much emotion over the present. Though neither bride nor groom would divulge its history, the significance of the ring—and this day—will surely not soon be forgotten by those in attendance.

  I wiped tears from my eyes as I finished out the article. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I caught a couple sniffles from Brad also.

  “That. Is. Amazing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the image still lighting up the machine.

  We stood, read the article over once more, and then again, soaking up every bit of the precious story we’d spent months looking for.

  “They found each other. They got their happy ending.” I clutched Liberty’s ring in my palm.

  “And we found the full story.”

  “Liberty must have given Michael the ring because in a lot of ways, Alexander was Michael’s father. Michael never knew Hugh, but he would have considered Alexander his father.”

  We stood in silence for another moment before Brad spoke. “I like what Alexander said about new beginnings.”

  I nodded. It reminded me of my conversation with Lydia, of the glimpse of grace she’d shown me. My heart threatened to bubble over at the reminder, at the mercy given to Alexander and Liberty, and even Hugh all those years earlier.

  We downloaded the article onto the flash drive and left the society.

  I swung my hand in Brad’s. “You know, I’m going to miss this. Playing detective with you. Coming here. It brought us together. Liberty and Alexander and the ring brought us together.”