The Color of Freedom

by Michelle Isenhoff

  After several minutes, he handed it back to her. “That’s better.”

  Like magic, the tarnish had disappeared, and the little silver heart shimmered brightly. Meadow spun it and watched the sunlight reflect back in yellow droplets.

  “Is there another silversmith in town who might recognize this?”

  The man puckered his mouth in thought. “Aye, several. But only one comes to mind who might fit your bill.”

  “Can you direct me to him?”

  “Oh, you won’t find him. He’s as fine a patriot as he is a smith. He’ll be out fighting this war until he’s dead or until the last redcoat ships for England.”

  Meadow’s hopes plummeted. She was beginning to feel like she was chasing a wild rabbit. “I would like to try anyway, if you’d be kind enough to tell me the way.”

  “Sure, sure,” the jeweler agreed. “His shop’s out on Clark’s Wharf, but he won’t open today. You might ask at his house. His wife’s a fine woman. Mess of young ones, too.”

  Meadow bit down her irritation. “How do I find it?”

  “He lives in the North End. Turn west and walk till you reach old Watson’s shop. Watson’s dead now, you know – on account of the pox – but the shop’s still there. Turn right and continue to the stump of the old maple tree…”

  She listened carefully but soon felt hopelessly lost. She would have to find someone who could give clearer instructions.

  “…or you could follow the water to North Square. He lives at the bottom end, west side of the road. Old house, diamond-paned windows, top story overhang, and a passel of youngsters in the yard. You can’t miss it.”

  This route seemed much easier. “I’ll do that,” she replied. “Thank you.” The bell above the door tinkled again as she set out with renewed purpose.

  Her path took her back to the docks where the water sparkled in the sunlight. In the distance a British man-of-war patrolled the entrance to the Atlantic – the clutching fist of a king maintaining his strangle-hold on a rebellious colony. And perhaps somewhere out there still drifted the cases of tea that had sparked the blockade to begin with.

  Several shipyards sat empty, their dry docks holding only the bones of unfinished vessels left to rot with nowhere to sail. Vacant storehouses lay silent and forlorn, interspersed with a number of seedy-looking taverns. The pubs, of course, still boasted life – mostly harlots and vagrant sailors.

  Meadow caught a whiff of smoking tobacco. A listless dockhand lounged against the side of a weather-worn building, glaring at her under sullen brows. She trembled before recalling her disguise.

  Following the smith’s directions, she passed into a residential neighborhood and soon spotted a row of houses like the one she sought. Upon asking, she was directed to a house hung with political cartoons in the upper story windows. She knocked on the door.

  While she waited, Meadow pulled off her hat and ruffled her hair. It had grown longer during the weeks of flight but hung in limp, uneven strands, not yet long enough to pull together behind her neck. Nothing like the beautiful fiery tendrils of another age, she thought mournfully.

  She pulled the hat firmly back in place. Just as well. Even in Boston – perhaps especially in Boston – she must maintain her disguise.

  The door opened, revealing a young girl about her own age. “Yes?”

  “Hello,” Meadow smiled, holding out the pendant. “Is your father a silversmith? I’m looking for the man who made this.”

  The girl grimaced. “My father is the finest smith in the city. This cannot be his work.”

  “It’s quite old. Perhaps when he was young?”

  “Perhaps,” she shrugged. “But he’s not here right now.”

  “Please, is there anyone here who might recognize this? It’s very important.” Tears gathered in Meadow’s eyes. She knew she was grasping at straws.

  The girl’s face gentled with compassion. “My grandmother might know. She’s visiting a friend, but I expect her back any time. You may come in and wait if you like.” She held the door open. “I’m Sarah.”

  “Thank you. I’m Wynn.” Meadow stepped into the entry, blinded momentarily after the brightness outside.

  “My brother, Paul, is at the forge right now. Perhaps he could fix your necklace for you,” Sarah suggested.

  “It’s not broken.”

  “Then why do you need a silversmith?”

  Meadow took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

  The girl smiled. “Grandmother isn’t back yet,” she prompted.

  “The pendant belonged to my friend’s mother,” Meadow explained. “I was told the smith who made it could be trusted.”

  By now Meadow’s eyes had grown accustomed to the light, and as she turned, a full-sized portrait in an adjoining room made her gasp. The picture was of a broad-faced man with chin in hand, holding a half-finished silver teapot. It was the captured midnight rider!

  “Revere!” she exclaimed. Had it been only been two nights ago?

  Sarah followed her eyes. “You know my father?”

  “I saw him riding, alerting the countryside.”

  Sarah’s face lit up. “Was he well? We haven’t heard from him since he left.”

  Meadow gulped. How could she tell the girl her father had been captured by a British patrol? “He was alive and well and very brave,” she managed.

  “If you need a trustworthy smith, as you said, you have come to the right house. My father is trusted with messages by the Committee of Safety, as you saw with your own eyes.”

  Meadow’s heart sank past her toes. The smith had been captured. Now she’d never get to question him. “That is little help if he is not here.”

  Sarah laid a hand on her shoulder. “There are those who consider me trustworthy. Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my father.” The words came out softly, tremulously.

  “You know mine. Perhaps chance has it that I know yours.”

  Meadow looked at the girl, so hopeful and eager to help. She decided to take a chance. “My father is Amos McKenzie. He’s indentured somewhere in the city.”

  Sarah’s smile stretched to reveal white teeth, even except for one crooked eyetooth. “I do know him!” she exclaimed. “His master is a friend of my father’s!”

  Meadow grabbed her arm. “Direct me at once! I’ve not seen him in five years!”

  But Sarah’s smile faltered. “Your voice does not betray that you are Irish, but if you are known as your father’s son, you will have a difficult time here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Few in Boston tolerate outsiders. Catholics, in particular, they despise. Even Sam Adams once said there is more to fear from the growth of Popery than from the Stamp Act,” she snorted.

  “You don’t fear Catholicism?”

  “I don’t agree with the Yankee habit of persecuting those different from themselves. My own grandfather had to go to great lengths to fit in after he arrived from France, even to the point of changing his name.”

  Meadow felt a growing alarm. “Is my father well?”

  “Your father is strong. His fists have taught his tormentors well, but it has been hard for him.”

  What had her father endured these past years?

  Sarah continued, “His master is a tolerant man with a deep affection for your father. He can be trusted.” She appraised Meadow’s slight size. “You would do well to make yourself known as his nephew, if he agrees. I fear you wouldn’t garner the same grudging respect your father has managed.”

  “Tell me how I can find my father.”

  “I have a better idea. I will send for him to meet you in Christ Church directly. There you will have some privacy.”

  “Thank you!” She fought the impulse to hug the girl. “But don’t tell him ‘tis I who will meet him. I’ve come to the city unlooked for. He would worry if he knew the truth.”

  “I’ll tell him my father needs him. Your secret shall remain your own.”

  Cha
pter 11

  Meadow waited impatiently, hidden in a box pew at the front of the church. Her feet tapped the floorboards, her fingers drummed her knees and her heart hammered out its anticipation. She had waited long years to see her father only to have her whole body rebel at waiting one hour more.

  At last, a loud voice filled the church. “What are you doing here, Revere? And what’s this all about? We received an urgent message to come immediately. I say, are the British already concocting some additional devilry?”

  Meadow allowed only silence to meet the unfamiliar voice.

  It spoke again. “There’s no one here, McKenzie. It must have been a prank. Confounded kids.”

  Meadow’s heart leaped at the mention of her father’s name. She gathered her courage and made her voice sound as deep as possible. “I seek only Amos McKenzie.” The words wavered in the vast room despite her brave attempt.

  “I’m here. Show yourself,” Amos demanded in his beloved, musical brogue.

  With trembling knees, Meadow raised herself above the half-wall. Two men were silhouetted in the doorway, but Meadow had eyes only for one.

  Amos stared hard at her, frowning across the room. “Do I know you?”

  She laughed. “I think you do.”

  His eyes grew round, and the color drained from beneath his bushy, red beard.

  “What’s going on?” the booming voice demanded.

  Meadow’s eyes shifted to the tall, dark-haired man, as craggy as the New England coast. She stepped forward boldly. If anything, her journey had taught her the art of dramatics. “Wynn McKenzie, sir, and pleased to meet you. Pardon my father,” she said, pulling off a cocky smirk, “I was unexpected, and he’s a bit overcome.”

  The man exploded in a gusty belly laugh. “He’s a stout one, Amos. A fine strapping lad! Would that America had ten thousand more like him.

  “I’m Jonathan Woods,” he said, gripping Meadow’s hand. “But I see this summons had little to do with me. I’ll leave you two alone to catch up. Bring the boy round for a hearty meal when you’re through, Amos.”

  With a stomp of huge shoes, the man left the church.

  Meadow pulled off her hat, twirling it anxiously in her hands. “Da?”

  “Meadow!” he breathed. “How can this be?”

  Instead of answering, she rushed to bury her face in his chest, engulfed in his massive arms.

  “Meadow, my lass, what happened? Why are you here?” The questions rolled off Amos’ tongue in a soft lilt, but Meadow could only cling to him and cry out the misery of their years apart.

  “There, there, Chickadee,” he crooned, stroking her hair and rocking her as if she were a small child.

  Meadow breathed in the smell of him, squeezing him tightly, afraid she might wake up and find him gone.

  Gradually, her sobs gave way to broken hiccups, and she smeared away the last clinging tears. “Oh, Da, I’ve missed you. So much has happened.”

  She pulled away and soaked in his beloved face. He looked old. Lines creased his ruddy skin, and he bore several scars that had not been there when they parted.

  “I’ve missed you too, lass. More than I ever thought possible.” He splayed his fingers in her chopped hair. “But is this the fashion now outside Boston?”

  Meadow laughed, and a load of worries cascaded to the floor. “It’s actually grown quite long. And the story grows longer still.”

  “We have as much time as you need. Come,” he said, leading her to a pew along the back wall. “Tell me how you’ve come to Boston dressed as a lad years before the termination of your indenture.”

  Meadow spilled her tale in its entirety, beginning with the day she left Boston bound for Wellshire. She revealed her master’s cruelty, Widow Pym’s disdain and her own excruciating loneliness. Then she told him of Sarah, and Esther, and Daniel and the horses. She described Hathbane’s attack, her flight to freedom with Salizar, and finally ended with their involvement in the battle. She left nothing out.

  Amos paced the floor in agitation, a caged animal taunted to a terrible, impotent wrath. “I’ll kill him,” he fumed, crashing a huge, deadly fist into his palm. “If that son of a serpent, Dennison, ever sets foot in Boston, I will kill him.”

  “No, Da!” she exclaimed, jumping up and grasping his arm. “The law belongs to the rich, to twist to their own purpose. They would kill you. Then what will I have gained?”

  Passion blazed in his hazel eyes. “Some things are worth fighting for!”

  “But nothing is worth dying for!”

  He stopped, searching her face. “Nothing?”

  A vision of John Blackburn, cold and still, flashed before her. She pictured Patience and the five children for whom John had sacrificed so they might know peace and freedom. But of what worth was life without loved ones to share it with?

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I won’t lose you again, Da,” she whispered.

  ~

  The sun burned directly overhead when the two emerged from the church. The towering white steeple dominated the skyline the whole way as Amos led her briskly through the North End. She was hard pressed to match his long strides.

  Amos gestured to a small house on a patch of green. “That is the home in which I began my indenture. Jonathan owns it.”

  Meadow took in the yellow, painted clapboards and the neat walk between spring blooms. The outbuildings stood straight and in good repair. The place looked loved and cared for, and as they passed she wondered where she was being led.

  Amos turned a corner and entered a shop. There Jonathan met them, spreading his arms expansively between sparsely-laden shelves. “Welcome to my home, Wynn McKenzie,” he said. “’Tis humble, but it turns none away.”

  She realized then how thin the tall man was.

  He turned to her father, “You know, Amos, I could have sworn you said you had a daughter.”

  Apprehension tickled Meadow’s neck. “Clearly your memory deceives you, sir.”

  “Indeed!” Jonathan proclaimed with loud amusement. “This could be no mere girl who stands so staunchly before me.”

  Amos winked and Meadow flushed with pleasure.

  “Girl or boy be hanged!” Jonathan boomed. “There is room in my household for either, be they the children of my good man Amos! ’Tis God alone who reunites the separated. Who am I to undo the work of His hand?”

  “I can work for my keep,” she offered. “I know horses.”

  “Alas, I am only a lowly merchant, and my livestock that remains will soon find its way to my table. There are few in the city who can afford to maintain such a hungry animal as a horse. Perhaps the British still have need of grooms.

  “But come!” he grinned. “Our worries may wait. Let us discover together what good things Mrs. Wood has laid out for us.”

  Meadow glanced down at her coat and bag.

  “But of course you’ll want to get settled first,” he amended. He led them through the shop to an empty storeroom at the rear. “I’ll trust your father to show you to his quarters and return you to the table when you are ready.” With that, he ducked his head and disappeared up a steep, narrow stair.

  Amos led Meadow out the back door, through a small, muddy yard populated by a handful of scavenging chickens, and into a stable vacant of animals save for one gaunt old cow with an udder that nearly dragged the ground. The ancient bovine stuck her head over the stall door and gazed at them with gentle eyes, her jaws working a slow rhythm.

  “That’s Penelope,” Amos stated. “She’s ever faithful to produce milk for Jonathan’s youngsters or she would have been eaten long ago and her feed saved for the family. As it is, she’s let onto grass as much as possible.”

  Meadow scratched the cow between the eyes thoughtfully. “Da, is Jonathan living above that store?”

  “Aye. His pregnant wife and five young daughters beside.”

  “But what about the house we passed?”

  Amos nodded sadly. “That he still owns, but would sell it if any bu
yer could be found. However, with the harbor closed and commerce slowed, not many who might desire his house can afford to pay for it. And so it remains,” he shrugged.

  “But why doesn’t the family live there?”

  “Jonathan used to rent out the apartment. When it became vacant after the port closed, they moved in to save fuel.

  “But come,” he gestured. “My quarters are actually quite comfortable.”

  She followed him up the ladder and looked around the spacious loft. Where large piles of feed would usually be stored, only a small supply of hay for Penelope remained, taking up one corner. The rest was open space.

  Her father’s quarters consisted of a rough table, a rope bed frame covered by a straw-stuffed mattress, a crate, and a few garments hanging neatly from wooden pegs.

  “You may keep your bed, Da,” she stated before he could offer. “I’ve grown quite accustomed to sleeping in the hay.”

  Though he argued, she consented only to his hanging a moldy sailcloth for privacy.

  “Did you have heat here in the stable?”

  Amos shrugged carelessly. “On the coldest nights I slept in the shop.”

  Meadow lowered herself to a crate and worry lines creased her forehead. “Da, it’s been hard for you, here, hasn’t it?”

  He sank to the edge of his bed. “Meadow, Boston is a city deeply divided. Whigs despise Tories, Tories blame Whigs for the rebellion, but the Puritan roots of both run deep. Both abhor Catholicism. Hatred has flowed freely between England and Ireland for long generations. You’ve tasted it yourself.”

  He sighed, “As long as I live in Boston, I will always be an outsider, even amid the patriots whose cause I share.”

  “Jonathan treats you kindly.”

  “Jonathan is a fair man who judges others strictly by their actions; an anomaly in these parts. Those who extend me courtesy do so on his account.”

  Her father relaxed then and laced his fingers around one knee. “But America is a vast land. There are places open to different faiths. On the frontier, where land is plentiful. Or in Rhode Island, only a short sail down the coast.”