“Liberty is a Man’s Game”

By Brendan O’Brien

It was late August of 1776. I walked with hands bound and my heart in turmoil. And though I walked with able eyes and willing feet, all I could see with each step I took were the lifeless eyes of my belated husband John Emerson, Artillery Officer of The Continental Army. He was the only thing I had in the world. Before now, all I saw were visions of living in a world at the dawn of the revolution. But now, all I could see were the lifeless eyes of John.

I was taken captive by the British forces to face the consequences of my choice to follow John into battle on the side of The Patriots. And as I marched forward, all I could see with each step I took were the lifeless eyes of-

“Sir, Miss Sarah Emerson of the Continental Army.” 

I stepped into the tent of one Captain Jason Bishop. I was shocked to be given such a formal introduction. For all the British lack in empathy and humility, they make up for in class and presentation.

Captain Bishop turned and addressed me, “Truly this is a clear sign of the strength of our adversaries. A woman is brought before a British Captain. I feel pity for them, indeed.”

Nevermind. 

“You would do better to smile for your Captain. For a woman is always more presentable when her lips and teeth are at attention.”

“I’m not sure what manners you and your countrymen practice, Captain. But on our side of the skirmish, it is common practice not to smile on the night of your husband’s passing.” 

“My condolences. But war is war and such things do happen. War, Miss Emerson, is like a game of chess. Pieces leave and you must continue on.”

I stood there with an expressionless disposition.

“Chess, is a game of strategy where your King-“

“I know what Chess is.” 

“There is much bite in your tongue. Perhaps your husband would have been better served to have taken up your domestic duties and allowed you to take his place on the battlefield to begin with. From what I am told, you fought with twice the vigor he did when he fell. Or perhaps it was better that he kept you in your place.

SMACK!

Nothing makes a man feel better about what he lacks between his legs than hitting a woman.  

“I joined the Patriot forces with every intention of dying a Patriots’ death. Like my husband, I-”

SMACK!

“For God’s sake, if I have to hear one more bleeding heart, self-righteous Continental mutter the same ridiculous rhetoric, you will be on the receiving end of my pistol.”

The gravity of the situation struck me at that moment. 

“If you are going to send me to my grave, then be on with it.”  

“Believe you me, nothing would thrill me more. Fortunately for you, your husband chose the correct side and it has saved your life.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“Given your position, you have been offered a unique proposal and opportunity.” 

“And what position would that be?” 

“The widow of a Loyalist and supporter of The British Empire” 

If in that tent there had been a floor, it would have fallen out from beneath me. “There must be some mistake. I-”

He grabbed a scroll from his coat pocket and read:

“John Randolph Emerson, husband to Sarah Jane Emerson. Member of the Loyalists. Current resident of Brooklyn Heights, fighting in Washington’s army. Working as an informer, spy and propagator of the British military agenda.”

“A traitor?”

“From a certain point of view. You are Sarah Emerson, true or not true?” 

“True.”

“Then I can assure you that the rest written is also true. The British government would like to offer you a gracious pardon in exchange for your services. General Howe will be returning the captured Patriots in an attempt to end the war and force a Patriot surrender. Should General Washington comply, then all's well that ends well. But in the event that Washington rejects our offer, The British will compound 10,000 forces upon New York and General Washington will have no choice but to attempt a retreat.”

“You wish me to be a traitor too?”

“We would like you to sabotage Washington’s retreat however you see fit. Should you succeed, this will bring an end to the conflict and save countless lives.” 

“And if I fail?”

“There are many British eyes constantly at work amongst the American forces who will see that you die a Patriots’ death.”

“Then why am I needed to carry out your task?”

“In war and acts of espionage, the objective is to accomplish the goal with one who is unthreatening and seemingly incapable of such acts. Few are as unthreatening and incapable as a woman. The officers who escorted you in will see that you are returned to the Continental forces.”

With a heavy heart and a somehow heavier head, I marched out. I could not tell if it was a march to duty or a march to certain death. Maybe the two are too similar to differentiate.

As I was loaded into the carriage to be transported back home, I spotted along the side of the road several black loyalists all with the same message written across their shirts, “LIBERTY TO SLAVES.”

The shortest and skinniest among them, denoted for the look of disappointment on his face and eight of his ten fingers cut in half. They were people once filled with the hopes and dreams that we all had in the promise of a new nation. “Land of the free” unfortunately only applies to those who are already free.

I arrived home and was welcomed back with open arms by the people I had lived amongst before John and I had gone into battle. 

Before I could even speak, I could see that word of John’s death had reached their ears. They offered words of sympathy, words of encouragement and in some cases, words just for the sake of words. Because silence and grief are too sad a combination to be left alone.

It was not long before word began to spread that General Washington had rejected the British army’s attempts to end the war with a Continental surrender. Call it pride, call it ambition, call it foolishness or courage; General Washington knew what he believed and doubled down in every effort to fight for that belief.

A carriage filled with able bodied fighters was scheduled to leave that night to head into battle and I knew that I would be on that carriage.

To keep up the spirits of those fighting, Washington had instructed that the newly scripted Declaration of Independence be read aloud for all to hear.  The words cut through the air…

 “…with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor!”

Those who gathered around were deeply inspired by these words. I may have been too, if it were not for the knowledge of the future that I possessed. With every step forward towards America’s independence came 10,000 footsteps on the other side of the fight from the greatest military in the world. 

I decided to take a swim in the river to escape the thoughts that plagued my mind. I spent most of my life on board the HMS Waverly, so swimming always came natural to me. Only a fool would take to the seas without a knowledge of swimming. I never felt more myself than amongst the waters. 

Though my father was just a crewman aboard the Waverly, he knew well enough to use his time to improve his knowledge of the sea. He spent every night outside on the deck studying the weather. He was always able to predict when a fog was coming in hours before it arrived. A warm northeast wind and a cool, southwest breeze. He was the smartest man I ever knew. 

SPLASH!

My solitary swimming was interrupted as a group of children jumped into the water with me. Each of them was as worry-free as the day was long.

It struck me that if we allowed children in red and children in blue to meet in plain clothing, perhaps they would do a better job solving the problems created by their parents.

Their mother followed close behind, overwhelmed at the task of caring for a family on her own. “Apologies if they have intruded on you. I will take them away promptly.”

“That’s quite alright. I have been so often in the company of adults that being around children is a much-needed change of pace.”

John spoke often of wanting children. I did not think it was responsible to bring a child into this new, uncertain world. John continued to talk about what he wanted. We often talked about what John wanted.

Sadly, who knew if John ever told me anything he truthfully wanted. Or thought or felt or believed. None of that seemed certain anymore.

I had avoided returning to my house for much of the day. But even a woman in distress must take care of herself in order to avoid attention. And if I had any intention of completing the mission assigned for me, I had to avoid attention at all costs.

I arrived home. It was especially vacant and empty. People speak of ghosts as if they are ghastly physical beings. But the real ghosts exist in the emptiness in one's life. 

I had a duty to attend to. There it was, that word again. “Duty.” I sat down and began composing a letter that would lead to the betrayal of this cause I once so adamantly believed in and fought for. 

The contents of the letter were written to one Continental General Mifflin from General Washington himself as I forged the words of a decorated military figure. The contents instructed Mifflin to retreat his forces immediately. This would surely cause a disruption in the Continental forces and give the British the upper hand needed to end the war.

I cut the seal from a letter John had received from Washington himself. What an honor it seemed at the time. I melted down the back of the seal with the precision of a physician and stamped the letter closed, ultimately sealing the message and my fate.

That night I was asked to join in a modest meal with several neighbors before we were carted off to join the armed forces. I was not one who normally fancied socializing, especially since our neighbors were more my husband’s friends than my own. But I told myself, “avoid attention at all costs.”

As my neighbors and I dined & drank, it was hard to ignore their looks of pity. The benefit of being a woman in grief is that people don’t ask questions. Mostly because they don’t want to be on the receiving end of those answers.

After dinner, we loaded up the carriage en route to Long Island to prepare for battle. Farmers, blacksmiths, sailors, fathers, mothers and every other type of person was recruited to fill up the ranks of the Continental forces.

The carriage was unusually quiet for the whole trip. Fighting for freedom sounds great when it’s read from a declaration in the streets. But in practice, it’s quite terrifying. 

By the time we arrived days later, it had been made clear that retreat was among us. I did question whether it was my duty to warn them. To protect these people from walking into certain death. Then again, what duty do I owe to anyone?

I was able to identify the chain of command that would lead my letter to the hands of Continental General Thomas Mifflin. Like my father, I saw the value in watching and observing. I swapped my letter with one of Washington’s messengers who handed it to Major Alexander Scammel who read it to General Mifflin himself.

The plan went off without a hitch. And with this we began our immediate retreat. What I did not account for was that I would be going along with them. 

I had unceremoniously sentenced us all to certain death.

This fact was further confirmed as General Washington himself rode up in a fit of fury and despair all wrapped up in one single phrase, “Good God. General Mifflin, I am afraid you have ruined us.”

Those in charge like to have you believe they have everything under control. But they know less about what is going on than the rest of us. 

Panic was ripe through the Patriot forces. The only ones who were not panicked were the ones who had already accepted defeat and inevitable death.

I fell into the latter of those sides and swam out into the East River and awaited certain death. After all this time spent doing what everyone else wanted, I wanted to at least have control over where I died. 

Thunder boomed and lightning crashed, setting an appropriate tone for the end of the war and the death of the revolution.

And then suddenly two things dawned on me at that moment.
One: I was so worried about choosing a side in the fight, that I just chose the side of my husband because it was easier than making a decision. And every decision of indecision led me to this point.

And two: The weather had taken a turn, as vicious winds blew the tireless rains. An unusual weather pattern for a New York summer. It was a warm northeast wind and a cool southwest breeze.

The cold rain and the hot wind made perfect conditions for a fog. This was our chance to escape.

I swam back to the shore at a hurried pace and shouted, “Fog is coming!” And it was not long before word had spread, just as fast as the fog had poured in. A thick wall of cover as the Continental troops filed into their boats quickly. This opportune escape had saved us all.

As I sat in the boat en route to Manhattan, I thought a lot about how hard picking a side in this fight truly was. Because we were given two choices, neither of which were wholly right. And while there are those who would like you to believe that they get to choose your options for you, the truth is that we are the masters of our own choices. And as much as it feels right to get out of the fight, that too offers no real solution. We must dig our trenches, surround ourselves with open hearts and open minds and fight for the fights that still need fighting. And not in the way they want, but in the way we want.