I omit date and name in case of capture, but I left you behind in the care of my dearest friend just today. Now, I stop to allow the horse a rest and my feverish mind must pour through an equally feverish pen.
I hope you do not think the less of me for taking this mission. To be near you but apart would torment me, and, besides, I am wholly suited to the task before me. If my tongue of silver and gold could tempt you into my bed, it can have the Pennsylvanians dancing.
Mrs. Linden, one of the ladies attending upon you at this terrible time, told me that you are in a cage. I told her I struggle to lift it and you both, and she said -- would I rather be the fluttering bird, lifting and lifting, or the one helpless and locked away? I envy you none of the keen wires that lock you away, dearest, and you have my service as long as I have the strength to fly. I may forget to ask your wants, and prattle on as I do, but you have only to express them. I seek now to solve our army's plight, and by doing so, to solve yours. I hope this is enough of an explanation.
It is foolish to write when I know the letter will be borne back on my own hands, but a fey part of my mind fears to encounter the British on the way. If it finds its way to you without me, I entrust three precious words to your hands.
You were right.
And now three more, deign you to accept them:
I love you.
--
I write now from Philadelphia, where I take an hour or two of sleep before I return. I dare not commit to paper what has passed, though I bear it back starting before first light on the morrow.
I dream of you. I pray for you, too, though my prayers long past have been too faint to reach the Almighty's ears. Be well, love. Be well, and be safe, when I return. Each passing hour without you will presses wrinkles on my brow and drains my hair to white; I will seem the wisest of sages ere I return to your arms.
I wonder, oft, what would have happened if I had not reached out to you, the first night after your return from Quebec. You turned from me and ordered me out, then, too. I thank all Providence's gifts that I ignored it at that time. Strange how these months have changed everything. Now, you do not tremble in fear of me; now, I (reluctantly, perhaps) allow your judgment to dominate my own. Never has another's growth so spurred my own.
I sleep now.
--
A close miss with a small group of Redcoats. They shot at me but did not come close.
The greater peril: The horse has a limp. I have decided to rest it in a cold stream; the mud is thick, and hopefully it is only a rock or some other irritant stuck under the shoe. I cannot tarry.
--
The rock free -- the horse, steady -- I have found no wounds. I go.
--
The horse has slowed again, and I must stop to rest him. It has been more than two days, longer than I'd hoped, and I fear and hope for what I find.
It seems this letter will reach you in my hands after all. I hope it is naught but an artifact of a time of toil and pain. Let it be a monument to how we overcame.
I sit and wait as the horse feeds and drinks. My impatience is considerable.
--
He is steady again. He has looked me in the eye to tell me, it is time to be home.
no subject
I omit date and name in case of capture, but I left you behind in the care of my dearest friend just today. Now, I stop to allow the horse a rest and my feverish mind must pour through an equally feverish pen.
I hope you do not think the less of me for taking this mission. To be near you but apart would torment me, and, besides, I am wholly suited to the task before me. If my tongue of silver and gold could tempt you into my bed, it can have the Pennsylvanians dancing.
Mrs. Linden, one of the ladies attending upon you at this terrible time, told me that you are in a cage. I told her I struggle to lift it and you both, and she said -- would I rather be the fluttering bird, lifting and lifting, or the one helpless and locked away? I envy you none of the keen wires that lock you away, dearest, and you have my service as long as I have the strength to fly. I may forget to ask your wants, and prattle on as I do, but you have only to express them. I seek now to solve our army's plight, and by doing so, to solve yours. I hope this is enough of an explanation.
It is foolish to write when I know the letter will be borne back on my own hands, but a fey part of my mind fears to encounter the British on the way. If it finds its way to you without me, I entrust three precious words to your hands.
You were right.
And now three more, deign you to accept them:
I love you.
--
I write now from Philadelphia, where I take an hour or two of sleep before I return. I dare not commit to paper what has passed, though I bear it back starting before first light on the morrow.
I dream of you. I pray for you, too, though my prayers long past have been too faint to reach the Almighty's ears. Be well, love. Be well, and be safe, when I return. Each passing hour without you will presses wrinkles on my brow and drains my hair to white; I will seem the wisest of sages ere I return to your arms.
I wonder, oft, what would have happened if I had not reached out to you, the first night after your return from Quebec. You turned from me and ordered me out, then, too. I thank all Providence's gifts that I ignored it at that time. Strange how these months have changed everything. Now, you do not tremble in fear of me; now, I (reluctantly, perhaps) allow your judgment to dominate my own. Never has another's growth so spurred my own.
I sleep now.
--
A close miss with a small group of Redcoats. They shot at me but did not come close.
The greater peril: The horse has a limp. I have decided to rest it in a cold stream; the mud is thick, and hopefully it is only a rock or some other irritant stuck under the shoe. I cannot tarry.
--
The rock free -- the horse, steady -- I have found no wounds. I go.
--
The horse has slowed again, and I must stop to rest him. It has been more than two days, longer than I'd hoped, and I fear and hope for what I find.
It seems this letter will reach you in my hands after all. I hope it is naught but an artifact of a time of toil and pain. Let it be a monument to how we overcame.
I sit and wait as the horse feeds and drinks. My impatience is considerable.
--
He is steady again. He has looked me in the eye to tell me, it is time to be home.