Chapter 20February 1775

Charles regarded me with a weary look in his eyes, as though all patience had left him. "Abby, you must understand what it is you seek to do. Will you have the courage to give up all of your life, your family, and your identity? To cut off all communication with everyone you hold dear, and to masquerade as a man? Not only this, but will you be able to look upon the men who will become your friends, and lie to them, and watch their blood burst from their bodies by great volleys of cannon and muskets? Will you be able to kill the men across from your line, men who, although they wear the red of Britain, are nonetheless living, breathing men not so different from you? Not to mention the disease that will sweep through your camp, and you will have to watch as the flesh is shaved away from your bones, and those of your friends. Your desire for freedom may be strong, but is it strong enough to wield these burdens that your body has not the strength to bear?"

I knew my reply would have to be sure, and strong. I looked into his eyes, and my gaze did not waver. "It must have that strength. For what else can I do? I know that even if I do not have the strength of body to fight, I most certainly not have the strength of mind to sit idly by and hope for the best. And you're right in thinking that my identity as a woman is one of the things I am most proud of. But I realize that to make a difference in these colonies, at least for the time being, I must be a man. And I will do whatever it takes, because I am an American first, and a woman second."

Charles was silent for a long time. "We're much alike, you and I," he finally said. "I share your thoughts, your beliefs, and your dsires. Were you any other woman, I would gladly fight by your side. But two things hold me back. First, you are not a woman. You still have so much learning and growing up to do. Secondly, and most importantly, you are my sister, and I cannot let you do anything that would result in your harm."
Anger would have boiled in my veins, but it did not. I finally understood my brother's piercing blue eyes: because I had wanted his respect, I ever felt his scrutiny as delving into the great caverns and crevasses of my soul. Whether Charles respected me or not was no longer of my concern: I had my future to look to, and the future of my country. I knew my role to play would be small, but so would the role of many, without whom no war would be fought, and none won. I turned away from my brother, and turned my eyes from the door I was about to walk through to look once more into his eyes. "Yet I will go, whether you would let me or not."

Chapter 21April 17, 1775

Mother woke me in the middle of the night. We were to leave immediately, she said. "Your brother Charles, of all people, came here and told me we must leave. Apparently, the rebels have started some sort of ruckus in a little provincial town." Thoughts flew through my head like puffs of air shot from a musket.

"But mother, the King's troops are here," I replied. "They hold Boston. Are we not safest in this place?"

"One would think, but Charles was most insistent." She shook her head. "Now pack your things. We'll leave within the hour." I nodded. Why would Charles want me to leave Boston? Would he not want me to stay here, away from the fighting?

"And Abby," my mother stopped at my doorway. "Charles also told me to keep a sharp eye on you. I want no deception from you."

Charles, Charles. If you cannot run my life, you'll have my mother do so for you. "Of course not, mother," I replied. I was out the side door only moments after she had left my room.

My dress was cumbersome in the crowded streets of Boston. Even at this late hour, the people were bustling in the streets, jostling each other in one great frenzy.

I paused at Charles' door to collect my courage. What was I to say?

"How dare you!" Words came easily in anger. "How dare you run my life. No, how dare you get Mother to run my life when you're too weak to do it yourself."

Charles rose from his desk, an unreadable look upon his face. "This is her version of a sharp eye, I see. I suppose I should have expected as much, considering how often you've escaped her eye in the past."

"I won't be kept out of this, Charles." I walked towards him, and looked straight into his eyes. My gaze did not waver. "This is my country. This is my war."

"No, Abby," his voice raised slightly. I could see I had two choices before me: I could exchange words with Charles until mother came to fetch me, or I could leave. But to where? "This is no one's war, least of all yours."

"Why, Charles?" I shook my head. "Why? Why least of all mine? Because I'm a woman? Because I'm weak?"

"Because I tell you so! God's teeth, Abby, I will not let you get yourself killed!" He turned away from me, but I followed.

"And what about you?" I asked. "What will you do?"

"I had intended to fight, but I will stay here and watch you if such becomes necessary."

"Then such is necessary."

Any proper scheming girl would have said "No, Charles, I'll be a good little girl and go with Mamma to wherever you want me to go," but I didn't. Charles regarded me with that disappointed/annoyed look I'd come to know so well, and replied "So be it." He took me by the arm, and escorted me quite firmly out to the street and back towards Mamma's house.

"Charles, please," I said, "this isn't necessary."

"Oh no?" he raised his eyebrows—his controlling, overbearing eyebrows. "Just a moment ago, you said it would be necessary for me to stay home from the war, when the war starts, which it certainly will, and watch your every move."

"Please, Charles, let me say goodbye to someone. Just one person."

Charles stopped walking. His eyes searched the street around us, flicking from detail to detail, looking anywhere but at me. "Alright," he finally said.

Chapter 22April 18, 1775

Boston was tinged with slight wisps of gray as we made our way through the streets. The wharf was just beginning to come to life, with the early messenger boys climbing sleepily up, up, slowly and quietly up gangplanks, and tapping ever so slightly on Captains' doors. A few sailors stood abovedecks, considering ringing the bell to wake the others or beginning their daily chores alone.

The shutters were drawn at the printing office. I knocked loudly, and Mr. Edes opened the door, groggily blinking sleep out of half-opened eyes. "Abby!" he said, "and Mr. Atkins, is something wrong?"

"No, Mr. Edes," I replied. "But could I see Peter? I'm sorry, but it can't wait."

"Yes, please, come in."

Peter was fully dressed. It didn't seem as if he'd slept at all that night, as his hair was untousled, but his clothing wrinkled, and his expression was one of exhaustion rather than one of having recently woken.

Charles caught my wrist before I went into a different room with Peter. "I'm letting you go here, Abby, but only if you give me your word to still be in that room when I come to fetch you," he said.

"You have my word." I glared at Charles as I said it. I hoped my eyes would slice deep into his chest and make him drop to the floor in anguish. They didn't.

I motioned to Peter to follow me up the ladder to the Long Room.

I didn't speak for a long time. Peter watched me carefully, and seemed to sense that I needed to take my time. "I love it up here," I said.

"Aye," he said. He looked around the room, at the old wood of the rafters, the long table where so many brave men had argued and laughed, and had planned for a future of lofty ideals.

"Why?"

He looked at me, startled. He didn't speak for a while. "Because it represents everything we want."

"But what do we want?" I asked. "To pay less taxes? To allow everyone to have a say in his own destiny? What?"

"I suppose it's possible we all want different things," he said, eyes never leaving mine. "But I think what we're trying to get is the right to work towards those different things, each of us in our own way and our own time." Even now, decades later, people tell me it isn't possible, but I swear Peter's eyes changed during that last conversation. At that moment, the green in them sparkled outwards, outshining the smooth brown.

"And what if people still won't let us?"

"What's this all about, Abby?" Brown again—a gentle, imploring brown that I often go back to, when I need a place of peace.

"Charles is sending me away with Mamma."
"He fears Boston is unsafe for you?"

"He fears I am unsafe for myself."

"There's a war brewing, Abby," Peter said. "Only yesterday, Paul Revere rode out to Concord to warn the militias that the Redcoats look to be gathering their resources. It won't be long now."
"I know," I said. "I want to be a part of it."

"You want to fight." It wasn't a question. Peter nodded as he said it. He'd known it all along.

"Do you disapprove?" His lips pursed. Mine drew a harsh line, chin upturned, tongue ready to lash out at any slight reproach.

He tilted his head slightly to one side. "You'll be fighting a double war, you know," he finally replied, "one against the Redcoats, and one against your own army, all those who would not have you fight."

"Would you have me fight?"

"Abby, why does it matter what I would or would not have you do? I won't be there to support you. And even if I were, this isn't the streets of Boston we're talking about here, where we paint our faces and throw tea into the river."

"I know. I don't know why it's important to me. It seems no one's supporting me, no one believes I'm strong enough, I'm just a little girl with silly ideas and—"

Peter placed a hand on my arm. "It has nothing to do with how strong you are," he said. "They love you. They don't want to see you hurt. War hurts everyone, even the strongest of us," his eyes, a mix of green and brown, looked down at the floor and then caught mine again.

"But would you have me go?"

"To war? Mind you, I learned my lesson about telling Abigail Atkins what to do long ago," he hesitated. "But no, I wouldn't want you to go. Knowing you've been wounded in battle, or seen a sight that will haunt you forever, would be worse than experiencing those things myself."

I didn't ask him to explain what he'd said. Now, looking back, I would like to hear the exact words I know he meant to say, just to have them for safekeeping and remembrance. But at the time, it was enough to look into his eyes, a glow of green that somehow didn't overpower the deep brown, and know.