Liberty Calling

Chapter 32

With every passing day, anxiety overwhelmed my brother and I. No matter how much we searched, no matter how many people we asked, there was no way to find James. That came as little surprise...those who were arrested by the redcoats tended to vanish without a trace. They would return days later, sometimes. Though more usually, nobody knew for a month or more if the prisoner lived or died. But nothing made sense about James's arrest. He was a militiaman, true, but an inactive one. And the British officers had learned over the past handful of years that the militia took care of their own. They knew better than to arrest a man on account of his being in the militia without expecting morbid repercussions. So what then? James was outspoken about his beliefs, but knew to stay away from trouble. None of it made the slightest amount of sense, and though there were no answers available, his arrest was all I thought of in the following weeks. He and Seth.

I received a letter from Seth almost immediately upon his arrival in camp, and we'd already exchanged a few more. It was funny- we both wrote so frequently, it was difficult to keep track of which questions we had asked and answered of one another. I loved his letters, and cherished them dearly. They piled up on the small table beside my desk, and as we began to miss one another more and more, and our words became more intimate, I decided I could not risk someone finding them. His words were meant for my eyes alone. As I shuffled through them, small phrases written in his somewhat untrained hand caught my eyes and my heart. I yearn every moment...my deepest love...the owner of my heart...your face in my every thought...burn with every day to hold...

A blush rose to my cheeks, and I knew in a moment that these words would carry me through. And they deserved to be preserved for as long as I could manage. And so I sought out a small wooden box I'd not opened in almost a year.

It was made of dark oak, and carved with beautifully beveled edges. Atop the lid was a small brass handle, and a lock which had lost its key long ago. It was my grandmother's jewelry box, given to me from her sickbed just weeks before she passed. I was only seven years old then...much too young to be given care of such a treasure. But I did care for it, and it was one of my most precious possessions. It now housed all the letters Elias had sent me, and the moment he went missing, I'd tucked it away, unable to even think of all the words that lay folded inside. I blew a thick layer of dust off the lid, and opened it softly. It smelled as it always had...of old wood and dried flowers. My heart shuddered for a moment as I caught sight of my brother's handwriting, written crookedly on mud-stained paper. Almost as though it were from instinct, I reached in, and slowly unfolded one of the letters. Not his last one, for I could not bear it yet, but from somewhere near the middle of the pile.

Dearest Emmeline, he wrote. I smiled, for he had always written so much more formally than he had spoken. I teased him for it often.

As I write this, I think the sun must be hotter than I've ever felt before. An odd thing for October. Though heaven knows this year has been as hot as hellfire, I'd hoped it would cool sooner than it has. I suppose New York must carry a thick stench of fish and rotting vegetables and dung. How lucky you are to be enjoying it, Sister.

I could practically see the smirk upon his face as he wrote, and I laughed a little. My throat closed in a moment, and my heart ached. I put a hand gently over my mouth, took a breath, and continued on.

I've considered what to write to you today. So often I have tried to shield Mother from the severity of our situation, but I feel as though you must know the truth of it. We were sent recently to push the colonial forces out of White Plains. I will not bore you with the details of the battle, but it is sufficient to say we succeeded. Though I dare not call it a victory, for deaths were almost equal, and I estimate that our wounded are greater than theirs. I am so tired of this constant death, Emmeline. I know men have fought for far longer than I. I have no right to be tired of it already. And still, I cannot close my eyes to rest at night without smelling blood and gunpowder. I comforted a man as he died during the siege. He and I have been assigned to the same tent since I arrived here. I hesitate to call him a man, for he is younger than I, only 15 years of age. A musket hit him in the stomach, which left him alive for long enough to suffer. He cried out for his mother, and begged me to find her and bring her to him. I do not think I shall ever be able to rid myself of the memory.