I was sitting in the ornately-carved wooden rocking chair near the crackling fire when the knock came. I set down my embroidery on the writing desk to the left of me and stood, smoothing my skirt, apron, and kerchief. Feeling slightly more presentable, I opened the door. One of the maids stood there, bearing a sealed envelope. I took it from her hands. She curtsied and walked out. I looked over the envelope and sat back into the chair, nervous as to what news this letter would bring.
My husband had joined the Continental Army a few months prior, and his letters were few and far between. Every letter that came for me, I feared for his life. From what he had described, the soldier camp life was horribly unclean and unsanitary, and was full of bacteria, disease, and death. Not that I was spared from such hardships--- a month back, my newborn, firstborn son had died from an infection. My parents had distanced themselves from us when my father discovered my husband was to fight for the Patriots. My father was loyal to the king, and, as it appeared, would put his loyalty to his mother country before his loyalty to his family. My mother had followed suit. Now, I was left with only the servants for company.
I opened the letter, my heart beating hard and fast against my chest. I read it quickly, and then slowly once more to make sure I had read it right. My heart dropped. I sank into the chair, hoping beyond hope that this moment was a nightmare.
“Dear Mrs. Potter,” it read. “We regret to inform you that your husband, Abraham Potter, was killed in action on the 16th of June, 1775. He was a brave-----”
I couldn’t keep reading, my hands were trembling so much. I felt the color drain from my face as I dropped the letter onto the table on top of my embroidery. This cannot be real, I thought desperately. No, this is a dream, a nightmare. I will wake soon, and none of this will have happened. I closed my eyes, willing myself to wake. I opened them once again and realized I had not woken from sleep like I had thought. This was real. This was actually happening. What’s more, I was completely alone in the world.
Another knock sounded from behind the door.
“Ma’am, are you well?” I barely heard the voice between my rushes of pain and emotion, but I could tell who it was at once. It was Kit, the head maid, and she had kept me company these months since my husband’s departure.
I got to my feet, walked to the door, and opened it. I handed the letter to her for her to read, and as she did, her face became whiter and whiter.
“It cannot be.” she said, panic rising in her voice. “It is impossible.”
“It is possible.” I said. “You are the only person I have left in this world.”
She stared at me. “What will you do?” she asked.
“I will need some time to think.” I said, solemnly.
“Of course, ma’am.” Kit curtsied and departed.
I thought about my prospects carefully, but my troubled mind refused to think. Nearly an hour later, a thought came to my mind. It was a rash thought, but it took hold of my mind and would not let go, and I found myself planning for the escapade of a lifetime. My mind was made up before I could think twice about it. I was a widow with nowhere to go and nowhere to turn, and I knew I would be an outcast in society. So, I decided, I would reinvent myself so thoroughly that no one would ever think to question me. It seemed I had found a way to not only secure a place in the world, I had found a way to continue the legacy of my husband, by becoming him.
I could not tell anyone, not even Kit. This dealt with a complete shift, a complete life change, and no one from my past could follow me into these depths, if I were to keep my secret. It was with a heavy heart that I called together the staff to dismiss them all, and Kit was brought to tears. I felt a pang of guilt, and I wondered for the first time if I was making the correct decision. Then, another thought penetrated my mind, which stated that my life was no longer about making the correct decision for myself, but for the good of the country, my loyalties, and the world.
Kit and the other servants left, and I was truly alone for the first time. I crossed the room to my husband’s wardrobe and donned his everyday clothes. I looked strikingly like him, and it was surprising even to myself. I could easily be mistaken for him with my naturally masculine face. The servants and I were the only ones who knew of my husband’s death, and I could use that to my advantage. One haircut later, I looked like I had always been my husband.
I strode down the street to the nearest enlisting station and, in the following weeks, prepared with other young men to join the forces of the Continental Army, hopeful to fight for the newborn country’s freedom.

It was nothing like I had expected. No, it was far worse. Training was more brutal than anything I had previously experienced or imagined. How my husband had survived as long as he had, I had no idea. Within the first week I came to realize how awful the situation actually was. Meals were few and far between, and consisted of little more than scorched bread. The water was filthy, and the stench of death and decay lingered on every inch of the premises. The soldiers were foul-mouthed and crass, and our tent was the night sky. The worst part was, in order to conceal my origin, I had become just like them. I had made a fine job of it, if I said so myself. It was a wonder that I hadn’t been found out already.
One particular night, I lay awake as I usually did, stomach grumbling. My mind was fixed upon everything that had brought me here. Tomorrow was the day we were to first march into battle, and I could not lie. I was afraid. I was afraid of losing my life, which was the only thing I had left. Who knew if there was a life after this? I liked to believe that their was, but being reminded of my own mortality put a new perspective on things. I thought for many hours, but eventually sleep overcame me.
The morning came too soon. We were woken before the crack of dawn and were organized into our ranks. I had prepared for this day for many weeks. I stood, rifle in hand, prepared to fight and, if need be, die for the honor of my country and my husband.
We marched onward, and the most dreadful scene unfolded before my eyes. Everything was happening in slow motion. The field was a sea of red… red as far as the eye could see. The captain gave the signal and we charged. To my utter shock, I was filled with an unprecedented rage. As I raised my weapon and aimed to the sea of scarlet-clad soldiers, I could barely control my shaking in anger. It was because of them that my husband had died. It was because of them that my parents had turned their backs on me. I saw the field as if it were a chessboard. We had only one thing in common, the enemy and I, and that was that we were the pawns in this war. They did the bidding of the king and the royal family, to charge and chase us down, and kill us swiftly and mercilessly, and for this reason, I hated them.
But were we any better? As soon as the thought occurred to me, the voice in my head sounded as though it were completely physically audible: Yes. We, too, had a country to protect. These honest people were fighting for the futures of their children, their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren. We had no king nor queen to fight for; it was up to us and us alone to win this fight. In that moment, I ceased my anger and drive for revenge, and resolved to fight for and with hope that the future of the children not mine would be beautiful and free, not full of pain as mine had been.
With this thought, I began to shoot. I felt a pang of sadness for every soldier that fell by our hands. I was overcome with emotion for the families that they would leave behind, brokenhearted that this was the kind of world we lived in. I felt guilt for the ones that truly believed that they were doing the right thing, after all, they were human. To take a life was no trivial matter to me, enemy or not. But I had a reason, a purpose. I had a purpose that I would not forsake.
I did not see the enemy fire. I did not see the bullet. It lodged into my shoulder and I collapsed to the ground, barely alive. Once again, my vision was full of red. But it was not the cloaks of my enemies, it was the blood, the beautiful, terrible, loyal, hopeful blood that had coursed through my veins these thirty-four years. The blood that told a story of how bravely I had fought for life and freedom, the blood of my legacy. It was all coming to a close, here, and now.
I looked up, and saw my husband reaching out for my hand. He looked at me with his warm, brown gaze and smiled. “You have fought well, dearest.” he said softly. He took my hand and I was filled with an intense feeling of warmth, light, peace, and fearlessness as I breathed my last.