Through Liberty's Shackles

By Elle Vincioni

Elle Vincioni's debut novel, Through Liberty's Shackles, follows the journey of coming-of-age Ruth Martin, as she struggles to find her place in the male-dominated world of investigative journalism during the Civil War. A fictional trailblazer for women and professionals everywhere, she conquers societal barriers to work for her local Boston newspaper while also coping with death and regret. After working for some time without pay, she finds herself being sent to Chattanooga, Tennessee in 1862, where she stays for over a year to report on the war as one of the first ever war journalists. During this time, she develops a relationship with her editor's incredibly wealthy Irish Catholic nephew and discovers the toll of war on both civilians and herself, witnesses the horrors of injustice first hand, and meets unique yet fascinating individuals in the midst of war. In this tale of a young woman forbidding inhibitions and boundaries to contain her ambitions in the endless fight for liberty, readers are infused with passion and enthusiasm for adventure and purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098360818

Book preview

29

Chapter 1

Ruth, we are going to be late! yelled Ada-Mae from the kitchen.

Just a moment! I replied in an even louder voice as I struggled to find my ink and pen.

I ran out of my room, full of regret, as I realized that Marion used the rest of the paper for her little drawings. Never do I leave without something to write down my thoughts and ideas on. These come not when I choose and cause me to abruptly stop when I am inspired, whether I see something that triggers a long train of thought that translates itself into my own personal monologue or someone—someone that catches my eye by some sort of unforeseen uniqueness. Even those things that are much more common—how the grass sways like fine hair blowing in the wind, or how the feathery clouds vary in shape, and each day they tell a different tale to the children that lie on their small backs and look up to find an array of pictures that evolve from their particular imagination—inspire me to write what I see in the most visionary way, truthful but with every added ounce of thoughtful emotion my mind and heart can spare.

Ada-Mae, please, help me find some paper!

No, I simply will not. If you plan on causing us to be late seeing Oliver off, I just won’t have it.

To this, I could not object. Oliver Miller and Ada-Mae fell in love at only fifteen, that is if one could at such an age. She attended the same school as his sister from the age of five, though they made their acquaintance only five years ago at his sister’s fourteenth birthday party. A shared dance of a waltz à deux temps and the opening of numerous dozens of lavish gifts later, the two escaped outside with the unspoken desire to be alone and spent the remainder of the night together in zestful conversation in his courtyard. I do recognize why the two were inseparable from the moment they met, as their personalities and tempers were an excellent match. Oliver had always been one determined fellow. My father regarded his ambition as childish and the consequence of irresponsible parents and an abundance of wealth but too little direction on how to spend it. Regardless of Oliver’s upbringing, Ada-Mae was not one to acquire the composure of adventurousness in her early years, contrary to her cultivated temper and ladylikeness today, and thus they shared a flame of ambition in their hearts that Oliver continued to see in her. I only ever noticed its disappearance.

Oliver was never one to actively seek a formal education surpassing his years at the classical boarding school in West Roxbury, and his parents agreed upon paying for his voyage to Europe rather than sending him off to trudge through years of college (though I cannot say that this was a poorly made decision, as Oliver’s everlasting pursuit of adventure, unfortunately, never compensated for his lack of intellect nor his repulsion against academia). On this voyage, Ada-Mae and I were going to see him off. Do not mistake my criticism of Oliver for any particular dislike of him; he was a kind young man with a good heart, though I questioned whether or not he would be a supportable match with my sister in her renewed state, determined to remain in Boston and live a life with her family. Perhaps she still held on to some inkling of adventure in her heart that would have contented him. I concurred such an imbalance would be fated for failure, though I never allowed this prediction to leave my thoughts.

We rode my horse—Ada-Mae rode side-saddle behind me so as not to ruin her appearance before she arrived to see her beloved—and we arrived at the docks in good time. I was actually quite impressed with my swiftness and riding skills on this particular day. As I took Ada-Mae past the Gardener’s pond, not simply one mother duck but all of her ducklings carried themselves ever-so-slowly out of the pond and followed directly onto the front of the path which we were riding upon, and by hardly a second did I turn the reigns of my horse and avoid trampling the lot of them. Normally, Ada-Mae would have been upset with me for paying too little attention to my riding, as she admittedly taught me to ride at a young age, but because of the short period of time left to meet Oliver at the time agreed upon, she gave me a mere critical grunt.

Convinced that I would die because of severe malnourishment, I begged my sister to allow me to make a very swift stop at Millard’s Bakery, as my stomach always had greater weight over my actions than my perseverance to maintain an exquisite figure.

Please, Ada-Mae, be a kind sister, and permit me to indulge in one little croissant? I am the one taking you to meet Oliver, am I not?

How can you worry about baked goods when we have so little time to spare? One day, Ruth, I will no longer oblige into giving you money for your indulgences.

So…may I? I asked with the softest smile and most innocent eyes I could muster.

Hurry yourself back.

How about I buy one for you and Oliver as well?

I am sure he would enjoy that.

The aroma of the freshly baked bread carried outside to our noses and filled the air with a comforting warmth that made your stomach sing. I jumped off my horse, landing a bit too hard on my knees, nearly causing me to collapse to the ground, and I swiftly walked into the bakery.

Millard’s is owned by an elderly, but moderately wealthy, couple who only recently passed down their bakery into the hands of their son, Julian, who had been trained to run the bakery ever since he was old enough to differentiate sugar from flour. At first look, you would assume him to be of the timid type, though he is far from it. Although I was too young to recall the day we first met in the bakery, my mother has told the two of us the story of our meeting on each occasion of her accidentally meeting me and Julian some place. Though we both have the story ingrained in our minds forever, we always listen intently to her storytelling, as anyone can plainly see the joy it brings her.

The day we went to Millard’s for the first time to buy bread, Julian’s father was demonstrating to him how to mix batter correctly to allow all of the ingredients to combine smoothly. I was begging my mother for a sugar cookie.

Ruth, ma petite, I have never seen a little girl enjoy so much sugar! my mother exclaimed humorously in her Southern French accent.

Of course, I pleaded with her until she felt compelled to purchase my cookie. As we thanked Mrs. Millard and returned to our walk home, I recalled having forgotten my cookie that I had inputted such a great amount of childish effort into acquiring. As we needed to arrive home in time for my mother to prepare supper before my father returned from work, my mother had to explain to me apologetically that cooking supper for her family came first but that we could return to the bakery tomorrow for another cookie. With only sugar on my mind, I cried the remainder of our walk home. An hour after arriving home, a knock on our door opened to the face of young Jullian, and in his hand was a sugar cookie in a white cloth napkin, tied with a blue ribbon. Still whimpering, I called out to my mother with joy that the boy from the cookie shop brought me my cookie, and she thanked him for me, as my younger self of only five years of age had little understanding of proper etiquette. In a rather enthusiastic, yet aggressive, manner of expressing my gratitude—though be forewarned this is only on the account of my mother—I jumped onto Julian, furiously wrapping my arms around him in a mighty embrace, causing him to fall backward off the steps of our porch and scratch both of his elbows. His short visit then transitioned into a slightly longer one that entailed some light nursing of his wounds by my mother and twenty minutes of apologies from me. The following day, we returned to the bakery with their napkin cleaned and a formal apology for my attacking their son. My mother and Mrs. Millard exchanged quite a laugh, and from that day forth, Jullian and I would spend all of our time off from school together, whether it may be my helping him in the bakery or his helping me with taking care of my horse.

Julian was in the bakery today, as always, and from him, I bought three croissants.

Do you have butter and jelly for the croissants? I asked Julian, standing across the counter from him. My mother, raised in Camargue in France, has passed on to me a number of her likings, from riding horses on the beach as she did during her childhood to butter and jelly on croissants. Millard’s is the only bakery in town where one could purchase any European delights.

Yes, it’s in the back. I’ll only be a moment, he replied.

As I waited, I turned to the board of announcements on the wall. My attention was caught by a new advertisement titled "Seeking Writers for the Boston Daily Journal." Immediately intrigued by the possibility of having my own work published, I ripped a flyer off the wall and quickly crumbled it into the pocket of my coat.

I had never personally known a woman journalist but was a fervent admirer of Mrs. Eleanor Swisshelm, who used to be an eminent reporter for the New York Tribune. Among her progressive qualities, she is an anti-slavery writer, outspoken against the death penalty for criminals, and an advocate for women’s civil rights, property rights, and, of course, our God-given right to vote. I once heard of a story that she persuaded President Fillmore to allow her to report in the gallery of the House of Representatives—the first woman! She has even published and edited her very own string of newspapers, though not without any hardship; I do recall hearing of her office being attacked and her printing machinery destroyed by a few individuals who were angered by her articles. Nevertheless, I had presumed my opinion would go forth irrelevant, as freedom of speech only guarantees women the right to speak openly—though not without public ridicule—but not for their opinions to be taken into any real consideration. For this reason, I contented myself for a while with writing fiction so that I may with the utmost subtlety speak my political opinions from the mouths of imaginary characters. By the grace of God, at least one person would discover my little hidden truths.

Julian returned with butter but without jelly, which I found quite disappointing, as my request was rooted in a desire for something sweet, but I simply thanked him and opened the bakery door to find Ada-Mae impatiently standing next to my horse, tapping her foot.

Do you have them now? she said to me in annoyance.

Yes, your highness, I replied mockingly, handing her a croissant.

I mounted my horse, then held out my hand to pull Ada-Mae up as she followed in her graceful manner, and we continued on our ride to see off dear ole Oliver Miller.

The sun had almost risen fully when we arrived at the docks. There, we found Oliver preparing the sails and conversing with another sailor, who appeared to be physically exhausted though the day had hardly begun.

I have found it quite difficult to breathe of late. Sometimes I find myself at night awaken, gasping for air, said the sailor.

Are you sure you are well enough to travel, then? asked Oliver worriedly.

Oh, please sir, do not worry yourself. The sea air should aid me in my ill health, the sailor replied with an innocent grin, reddish cheeks, and a bulb nose. The sailor turned around to find the two of us silently observing them, then saying word to Oliver, he pointed to us.

Oliver grew an enormous smile of relief on his gleaming face and approached us. He motioned for the sailor to walk with him, so he comically took a few large steps to catch up to Oliver, whose posture had suddenly straightened.

Thank goodness! I was afraid that you may leave before I had the chance to say goodbye to you, Ada-Mae anxiously told him, slightly out of breath, which I had trouble understanding why.

Do you earnestly believe that I would ever leave without kissing you goodbye? Oliver replied warm-heartedly, approaching her face to do just that but making a slight