Some of the names had nearly faded to illegibility; others she could read with ease. All five were women. Last in line, in dark new ink, was penned, “For Allison,” and above that, in the same spidery, flowing hand, “Rosemary Donovan” – presumably the final recipients of the treasured family heirlooms. But why had they passed to her?
Many times over the last five years she had traced the names with her forefinger, puzzling over them. Could these women be ancestors of hers? Perhaps, but none of the names matched those of her mother or grandmothers. She longed to ask her father about them.
The last rays of the dying sun stained the pages orange beneath her fingers. She thumbed through them, looking for the answers her father had promised. Many of the underlined passages were familiar to her. She remembered Father Holden speaking on them in the little village church. She missed the tiny, balding old man.
“Meadow Wynn,” he would say sternly during her frequent visits – he always called her by her first and middle names – but then his ancient face would crinkle with pleasure, creased like dry, cracked earth. “Come in, daughter, and set with me a while.”
The memory of his sparkling smile and wise words had lent her strength during the long years of separation. She never learned what had become of the kind old man. The new landlord, a Protestant, had little tolerance for Catholicism, and she had not seen the kindly priest since the fire – the night the whole world had burned.
~
Meadow pressed herself into the timbers of the barn while Mr. Miller performed his evening chores below. The sun slid into its cradle before the door finally creaked closed behind him and silence fell in the barn. From her high vantage point, Meadow watched him cross the yard and enter the house.
Clutching her rosary in one hand, she prayed a quick blessing on her journey. Then, like one of the mice who shared her hiding place, she crept from the loft and down the ladder. Her muscles still ached, but dully, not as when she first awoke.
Stark silhouettes etched themselves across the backlit sky. She stayed low to the ground, skirting the house with care. Inside, she could see the farmer sitting beside a blazing fire. A child played with a wooden toy on the floor, and a woman passed in and out of view. The scene dragged up warm memories of a humble cottage in Ireland. Her father used to warm his feet on the hearth in the same manner.
A sharp bark split the silence behind her. Spinning around, she found herself face to face with a snarling, curly-tailed dog. Its teeth gleamed, and hair bristled in a ridge along its spine.
Meadow backed toward the road, trembling like a sapling beneath a lumberman’s ax. “Easy, fellow,” she murmured, holding her palms open in front of her. “I’m leaving.”
The hound followed slowly, warily. Then it charged, barking at full volume.
She whirled, stumbling through the waist-high weeds, expecting to feel the slash of sharp teeth.
Bursting from the yard, she tripped over the road’s muddy ruts. Her pack flew into the weeds on the far side of the lane, and she sprawled headlong into the path of a rider.
The horse reared. As Meadow scrambled to avoid the flying hooves, her eyes locked with those of the rider who worked to bring his mount under control. Recognition came to both with a jolt.
It was her master’s house guest, Dobbs!
The dog continued to bark frantically, but it did not leave its yard.
“Ho there, Jasper! What’s the problem?” Mr. Miller called from the doorway.
“Stay down, girl!” Dobbs hissed. Then he called to the farmer, “My horse is giving me a bit of trouble, and I fear your dog is not making matters any easier. Call him off, if you please, sir.”
“You, Jasper! Git yer tail in here!”
The barking ended immediately as the dog scrambled for the house, tail curled under its body.
“Sorry, sir,” the farmer called. “Mostwise he lets travelers be. Don’t know what came over him.”
“Fine, fine. Good night to you, neighbor!” Dobbs called.
“And you!”
The door closed firmly behind the farmer and his dog.
“Stand up, girl,” Dobbs commanded.
Meadow remained frozen with terror before her master’s friend.
“I know who you are. Even in the fading light your hair betrays you. Your hat is there,” he said, pointing. “It came off when you fell.”
Meadow spotted the hat then glanced around frantically. Perhaps she could make an escape when she grabbed for it.
“There’s no need for that,” Dobbs assured her, reading her thoughts. “I know what happened, and I won’t bring you back to Dennison. The man is a positive beast.”
Meadow looked full into Dobbs’ face, relieved to find the same kindness she had witnessed thrice before. She stood and retrieved her belongings.
“If you climb up behind me, I’ll take you as far as the village of Camden. I’ve news you may wish to hear along the way.”
Meadow hesitated only a moment.
“You’ve sat a horse before,” Dobbs observed as she swung up unassisted.
“I learned a few things at Wellshire.”
“Ah, young Daniel,” he guessed. “A good lad.”
“He hates the British.” She regretted her outburst immediately. She must not aggravate her rescuer.
“Perhaps with good reason,” Dobbs granted. “Not all of them would wish him well.”
“Them?” she asked. “Are you not one yourself?”
“I consider myself such, but you might say I’m of a different mold than Dennison and the others. I wish for a peaceful reconciliation with the colonies. War would be costly and only breed more resentment.”
“It will not come to war,” she said firmly. “Only a fool would die for ideas such as these colonists have.”
“You do not consider yourself an American, then?”
She flipped her hair haughtily before remembering it had been chopped off. “I was born Irish, and I will die Irish.”
“I see,” Dobbs said with a friendly smirk. “Then you would not care for the British, either, I suppose?”
“An Englishman burned my village to create more pasture for his Thoroughbreds,” she flared hotly. “I hate the British!”
“And yet you would not fight them?”
“What would be the point, sir?” she snapped. “The British are powerful. They’re above the law. Death comes swiftly to those who challenge their authority, and nothing is worth dying for.”
“Lord Dennison wishes you dead,” Dobbs stated bluntly.
Meadow remained silent. She had forgotten.
“He has been confined to bed with a severe concussion all day, but he felt well enough to rage long and hard against the ‘Irish wench’ that put him there.”
“I acted in self-defense,” she protested.
“It does not matter. In a day or two, he will move heaven and earth to find you, and when he does, you can be sure he will have his revenge.”
Meadow shivered at his words.
“Already Dennison has advised his friends and neighbors to be on the lookout for you – although they search for a girl,” he chuckled. “Even so, you must do better than this. You are too clean. Rub dirt on your face and in your hair to dull the color. Then keep yourself well-covered beneath that hat. And travel only in the darkest night. No more sneaking out at twilight, as you value your life.”
They rode in silence for several miles until lights appeared through the gloom, framing the windows of a building just ahead. Dobbs stopped his mount before entering the town. “I go no farther tonight. I have a room reserved here with friends, but you have several hours yet before dawn’s light. Go, and God be with you.”
Meadow slid off the horse’s rump, clutching her bag tightly to her chest. “Thank you, sir. Yours is the only kindness I’ve known of the British.”
She melted into the shadows of the town.
Chapter 4
After her close call at the Miller farm, Meadow moved onl
y in the dead of night, making certain she was well-concealed when the sun shed its light over the roads. Travel was slow and difficult, and she took many a tumble on unseen obstacles, but she dared not show herself.
After a week, her muscles became hard and solid, their ache replaced by only a vague tightness when she woke in the evenings. She could cover long miles with little rest, sucking snow for moisture as she went. With constant movement, the chill of late winter did not penetrate her woolen coat.
Taking Dobbs’ advice to heart, she had smeared mud from the road all over herself. Her short hair became so filthy that it stood up of its own accord when she raked her fingers through it, and she stunk like a field hand.
She was making her way with growing confidence. Only one thing still alarmed her. Though she drank her fill of milk most days, she had eaten her last scanty meal yesterday at dawn.
The lights of a small town cut the darkness ahead. Though dawn was still an hour or two away, Meadow turned off the road and crept into a hayloft to rest and drink a cupful of milk. She would wait for daylight and search for a more substantial meal in the settlement. Perhaps hiding in plain sight would provide some measure of safety.
A hard, gray dawn erupted beyond the walls as she listened to the now-familiar sounds of chores being completed below her. Too nervous to sleep, she watched the shafts of light creep slowly down the barn’s supports and waited restlessly for mid-morning, the time she had determined to emerge. When the sunlight touched the floor, she left the building without any kind of plan and slipped down the path to town.
A pair of oxen pulling a wagon loaded with hay plodded up behind her. She made way for them on the narrow road, glancing in alarm at the driver, certain he could read her flight in her face. But the ruddy farmer simply gave her a dignified nod.
“Need a ride, son?” he asked.
The way was not far. She forced her heart to slow its wild hammering and answered, “I’ll walk, thank you.”
“Suit yerself,” he shrugged, and the oxen plodded on. Meadow followed at a distance.
Though the town was small, it was a hub for the surrounding countryside, and a number of people lined its narrow streets. They walked briskly, their woolen cloaks hanging open in the sunshine.
Carefully sidestepping the filth strewn on the streets, Meadow passed many low clapboard houses, painted and tidy, with dormers like eyes peeping through the roofs. Nearby, a livery rustled with the sounds of horses, and their familiar, soothing smell wafted onto the street. Several taverns advertised their business with clever signs, illustrating names like “The Blue Pony” and “The Dancing Willow.” And somewhere Meadow could hear a blacksmith pounding out his trade within the walls of his smithy.
Rounding a bend, Meadow arrived at the town common where sheep foraged in the open area, bleating mournfully and pawing through winter’s icy skin to reach the remnants of last year’s growth. A lazy old dog with a muzzle of gray basked in a sunbeam while two young boys with willow sticks strove vainly to entice it to play.
One side of the commons hosted an outdoor market. Though she had no money, Meadow wandered among stalls offering dried apples, eggs, butter and cheese, colorful quilts, and linens boasting fine needlework. One wagon bed held potted and wrinkled produce preserved from last season’s harvest. A slave auctioneer called out bids on a few doleful Negroes, and farther on, great slabs of meat thawed in the warming sun, buzzing with early flies.
A wagon some distance from the others caught Meadow’s eye. The box was painted with bright colors that had dulled over time. Behind the driver’s seat, shallow living quarters had been fashioned of wood, but the rear remained open, hung with metal wares, tools and hardware.
The peddler was small and angular, with a loose fringe of reddish hair that frizzed down from a balding pate. He strutted about with jerky movements, reminding Meadow of the little bantam rooster that swaggered about Lord Dennison’s hen houses. At the moment, he was trying to persuade an aging draft horse to pull the curious rig, but he only succeeded in making the animal sulkier. Meadow thought he should do better moving a brick wall.
At last, the little man stopped before the great head and crossed his arms, arguing conversationally. “Come now, Aberdeen. Pouting will get us nowhere. We have many miles to cover before the sun sets. Do you wish to bring about my heart palpeations?”
Meadow listened with amusement.
“And if they kill me, who will care for you, my friend? Do not disdain the hand that feeds you,” he instructed, jabbing the air with his finger.
Smiling to herself, Meadow turned again to her own problems. Should she ask for work in a shop or offer to chop firewood at a residence in exchange for a meal? She was leaning towards the latter when she caught sight of a bewigged, bear-like figure galloping down the main street among a posse of friends, and her heart nearly stopped.
The group pulled up, and one by one they entered buildings along the road. Meadow could only imagine they searched for her.
Acting quickly, she sidled up to the peddler who still argued politely with his animal.
“Would you hire me if I can move the horse?” She was surprised at her own boldness.
The man cocked his head to one side and studied her. “I don’t know that I’ve much use for a lad, but if you can get old Aberdeen’s legs aworkin’, I’ll let you prove my further need of you.”
Meadow approached the horse’s head and stroked its soft muzzle, murmuring in low, soothing tones. The beast bobbed its head and snorted out great breaths of air. Then it stood quietly, swiveling its ears at the soft noises. After a few moments, Meadow slipped a hand beneath its bridle and clicked her tongue.
The horse took a step, and then another. The pots jingled merrily on their hooks as the wagon rolled across the commons.
The peddler bounced with delight. “By the pope, you’ve done it!”
Just then, Lord Dennison rode into the open square. “Have any of you seen an Irish girl, about fourteen years of age, with bright red hair and a foul temperament? She answers to the unchristian name of Meadow.” His lip curled in disdain.
Meadow froze in mid-step and ducked her head, hiding in the shadow of the shapeless brim of her hat. Aberdeen tossed his head in objection to Hathbane’s shout.
Silence met the fat man’s question, so he rode to each wagon individually.
“You there,” he called to a farmer, “have you seen such a girl?”
The man shook his head, unconcerned.
Hathbane circled the commons, finally approaching the peddler. “What about you, tinker? You travel the countryside. I am missing my servant girl and I want her back. Have you seen her?”
The feisty peddler called up to the British gentleman, “You make no mention of a reward to jog my memory.”
Hathbane flipped the man a coin in disgust.
The little man caught it and smiled. “Thank you kindly, sir. Now to answer your question, no, I’ve seen only myself and this boy, who likely as not just saved my life. But as surely as our good king lives, even if I had seen her I would not be telling the likes of you. I need little imagination to supply her reason for fleeing.”
With a roar that echoed down the street, Hathbane wheeled his horse and charged the peddler, but the agile little man sidestepped at the last second, and Lord Dennison galloped out of the town with his friends.
The peddler chuckled merrily. “I believe I struck near to the truth.”
Meadow nearly fainted with relief as the hoof beats pounded away. She clung tightly to the big horse’s mane while the world swam back into focus.
The peddler dipped low in front of her. “My name’s Salizar,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
She accepted the handshake and shook it heartily, as she imagined a man would. “Thank you, sir. I’m-” she stopped abruptly. It would not do to announce her real name, and so soon after Lord Dennison’s proclamation. She quickly settled on her middle one. “Wynn. My name is Wynn.”
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“Good to know you, son. Now let’s see if you can get this stubborn cur moving again.”
Meadow clucked to the horse and the strange rig rolled out of town.
~
They traveled much of the morning in silence, Meadow keeping pace easily with the old horse. Sometimes in the muddiest places, the beast would grind slowly to a stop, like a giant mill wheel at the end of a workday. At those times she would lead him by his bridle, mumble nonsense in his ear and click softly to him.
In the dark, she had missed the scenery of the open countryside. Now she soaked it in. The world was still clothed in white, but it was dripping and stretching, shedding layers in the warmth of the sun. Tall maples and oaks reached skinny fingers to the life-giving rays. Spruce and white pine shook snowy aprons from their skirts. And here and there, a stark granite rock reared its head, struggling against the ice that still bound it.
They sauntered past a multitude of bubbling streams, freed from their seasonal prison. Their banks danced with little creatures beckoned from their nests by the snap and crackle all around them. Bushy-tailed squirrels chattered high in the branches, calling to their friends and neighbors, and red-breasted robins flew home from the south. Once, Meadow even caught a glimpse of a shy doe bending her neck for a graceful drink.
Salizar sat most of the morning in the driver’s seat, the reins resting slack in his hands. He stared alternately at the passing countryside and the clear blue sky, all while thoughtfully chewing the inside of his lip.
She felt safe in the presence of the strange little man, fully aware of her good fortune. She must remember to say a special blessing for him. Here, by God’s grace, was food, protection, and a new identity for herself, all traveling in the direction she must go. She was inclined to stay with him until he strayed from her course.
The sun was well past its zenith before Salizar called for a halt and pulled the rig into an open meadow prickled with brown stalks of grass. “It’s time to earn your keep, boy. Gather firewood while I scrape together some vittles.”
The Color of Freedom Page 3