The Color of Freedom

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “Good morning, sleepy head.” Daniel sat down beside her and offered a carved wooden bowl containing hard biscuits and gruel.

  “Daniel, what’s going on?” she asked, accepting the meal. “Don’t the men have anything to do? Don’t they march, or cut firewood, or dig latrines or – or anything?”

  The boy’s eyes sparkled. “When did you become such a soldier? I sent you away a frightened child and you’ve returned to command the army!”

  “And perhaps he could run it better.”

  Meadow turned to find a young black man approaching. The boy couldn’t have been more than seventeen, but he carried himself like a man and his dark face bore wisdom beyond his years.

  “This sorry piece of work is my tent mate, Matthew Parish,” Daniel said slugging his friend good-naturedly as he sat down.

  The boy’s face broke into a youthful grin. “Sorry, is it? Were it not for my generosity and my carpentry skills, you’d still be sleeping in the rain.”

  Daniel laughed. “Matthew, this is my old friend from home, Mea-”

  “McKenzie,” Meadow broke in. “Wynn McKenzie.” The task of juggling all her identities was growing cumbersome.

  “Well, Wynn,” Matthew said reaching out a hand, “any friend of Daniel’s I’d be pleased to count as one of my own.”

  “Likewise,” Wynn replied and accepted the handshake.

  Daniel looked thoughtfully from one to the other. “You know, you two have much in common.”

  “What do you mean?” Meadow frowned. “I’ve never been a slave.”

  “Neither have I,” Matthew told her. “My parents bought their liberty. I was born as free as you.”

  “More so,” Daniel asserted. “Wynn’s family were tenant farmers in Ireland. Free in the eyes of the law. In reality, bound by poverty to the land they rented.”

  “But we owned ourselves.”

  Daniel nodded, “Until you reached America as bound servants.”

  Matthew’s eyes blazed. “Then you must hold freedom as dearly as I do.”

  She nodded. “And yet I fear it.”

  Matthew’s gaze softened with understanding. “It terrifies me, as well. I fear my faith in America will return empty; that my sacrifice will be in vain; that even in freedom I will be denied the dignity and worth inherent to all men.”

  “But only applied to white Protestants,” Meadow finished. “Have you come to fight?”

  “I have. I fight for a freedom much deeper and a future much longer than others can even imagine.”

  Meadow felt he understood a part of her soul that she hadn’t even known how to voice.

  Daniel gestured broadly, “These men are now fifteen or twenty thousand strong. They are farmers, doctors and lawyers, merchants and tradesmen. They have no training, little food and poor leadership.”

  “Then why do they stay?” she asked.

  “Hope,” Matthew answered.

  “Our forces are divided,” Daniel continued. “Some come from here and answer only to this man. Others come from there, deaf to all orders but their own. The officers waggle about, flaunting inflated titles and bickering like barnyard geese. Ward is beside himself trying to organize such a rabble.

  “One good leader could turn this ragtag bunch of rebels into an army to be reckoned with. But the men grow weary of this long, idle waiting, and many have returned to their homes. We must act soon! We must take the fight to the British or the army of Massachusetts will cease to exist.”

  Matthew grinned and patted Daniel on the shoulder. “I’ve heard this sermon before. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

  Meadow watched the proud set of the boy’s back as he walked away.

  “Ships carrying more troops and officers have just arrived in the harbor,” she offered. “I delivered the information myself.”

  “So that’s why you are here. I’m glad to see you made it to Boston. Did you find your father?”

  “Yes, thanks to your necklace. I would give it back, but it’s in the city.”

  “Keep it safe for me.”

  “I will, if you promise to keep yourself safe.”

  “Meadow, you know I cannot promise that. Sometimes lives are required to effect change.”

  “And you would give yours up?”

  “I would. A nation free of tyranny is a priceless thing. Imagine a place where no nine-year-old child is ever forced to watch her home burn before being cast from her land to starve. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I’m trying,” she stated bravely, but inside, she still trembled.

  Chapter 15

  A week later, Meadow set down the heavy buckets hanging from a yoke across her shoulders and brushed sweat from her eyes. Her father and Jonathan were often gone toiling on city works projects in exchange for whatever meager food the town’s selectmen found to hand out. That left the garden squarely in her lap.

  The plot was flourishing. Tiny plants had sprouted and long green rows promised food for another winter. But fighting the withering heat had become a constant battle. Twice a day, she and Abigail hauled water up and down the rows to save the precious crop.

  The woman grew heavier and more uncomfortable as the time neared for her baby to be born, and her temper dwindled.

  “You didn’t water that one enough. See how it’s drooping? Soak the roots better.”

  Meadow bit her tongue and proceeded down the row.

  “Careful, boy!” Abigail exclaimed. “You stepped on a bean seedling, and we need every single stalk. Do you want us to starve?”

  At last they finished the daunting task and Meadow stretched her aching back. She could only imagine how the pregnant woman suffered in the sweltering heat.

  “Mrs. Wood, why don’t you bring the babies home and take a nap? I’ll escort the three older girls to the shore for the afternoon.”

  The woman hesitated, but Meadow saw the lines of weariness around her eyes. “Naomi will help me,” she prompted. “You go take a break.”

  “Please, Mommy!” the girls pleaded. “Please let us go.”

  “Well, all right,” Abigail relented. “But see that you don’t wade in too deeply.”

  “They’ll be fine,” Meadow assured her. “You go rest.”

  Soon Meadow was leading the children to the shore of the expansive Charles River. They skirted the salty mill pond and followed Green Lane down the bluff to the water’s edge. The walk wasn’t far, but she carried Emily on her back for much of the way.

  At the sight of the beach, the girls gave a shout of laughter and kicked off their shoes and stockings. With skirts held above the water, they tiptoed over the wet sand, dancing backward before each lapping wave. Meadow listened to their squeals of discovery as they collected rocks, broken shells and shards of green glass rubbed smooth by the sand.

  Meadow removed her own shoes and let the waves play over her toes. The water hadn’t warmed much, but today its coolness felt heavenly. She sat at the highest reach of the tide and watched a tern wheel overhead. When the breeze swirled just right, it brought to her the smell of open fires from the Common.

  “Can we go swimming, Wynn?” Naomi asked.

  The girl was curious and eager for attention. She reminded Meadow of herself at that age, before she fled her home. What would the war do to this child’s innocence?

  “Girls can’t swim, Naomi.” Annabelle was more reserved than her older sister. “Besides, the water’s still too cold.”

  “I don’t care.” Naomi hiked her skirts. “See? I can wade out to my knees and I’m not a bit cold.”

  “But I’m certain you’re no longer hot,” Meadow stated. “That’s far enough or your mother won’t let us come again.”

  Not to be left out, Annabelle waded to her sister’s side and soon the girls began a splashing game that made swimming unnecessary. Little Emily ran up and down the shore like a sand piper, calling to the older girls and laughing delightedly.

  The waves rippled closer, and M
eadow inched backward as the tide gained. She recalled her first trip to the ocean with her father. She’d been entranced by the rhythm of the waves beating the rocky shore. She had never forgotten the smell of salt spray or the sound of gulls calling overhead. Though the Charles carried fresh water, it mingled with the sea, and as Meadow inhaled the fragrance she was pierced with longing for her homeland.

  “Red!” shouted a voice.

  Only one person called her that. Turning, she found Willy striding up the gravelly beach. He was dressed in a casual pair of breeches and a white shirt, obviously off duty.

  He grinned. “I knew it was you. I could see your hair from London. Are these your sisters?”

  The girls crowded bashfully around Meadow.

  “My cousins,” she answered and introduced them.

  “I have a sister at home,” Willy told them. “She’s twelve now, but when she was seven I taught her to skip rocks. Have any of you seen a rock leap across the water?”

  At the girls’ solemn denial, he stooped to search the shore. The children followed like mice behind the pied piper, their eyes round and curious.

  “The most important thing is finding the right rock,” he instructed. “It has to be a special one, you see, with a bit of magic in it.

  “Here’s a good one.” He held up a smooth, flat stone. “All it needs is the breath of three pretty girls, and it will hop across the water like a bunny.”

  He held it low so each of the sisters could blow on it then sent it skipping over the waves. The girls “oohed” in delight and, no longer bashful, begged him to do it again.

  Willy played with the children all afternoon, enjoying their games as much as they did. Meadow watched him with pleasure. He was different from any Englishman she had known except, perhaps, her master’s dinner guest, Dobbs.

  Willy flopped beside her, breathless. “Sorry, girls,” he laughed as they tugged at his arms. “I need a break.”

  “Naomi, Annabelle, take your sister and let Willy rest.”

  They girls left with groans of protest but were soon chasing herring gulls and squealing as they flew away.

  “The camp is full of soldier’s children,” Willy remarked. “I’ve become something of a favorite there, so I come here to rest.”

  “Only to find three more youngsters waiting for you,” Meadow smiled. “You certainly have a way with them.”

  “I would love a quiver full someday but, alas, a soldier’s life is no way to raise a family.”

  “It’s obviously done.”

  “Aye, it’s common. But it’s a hard life, following the army. The job is perilous and the pay pitiful.”

  “So why not leave them in England?”

  “Because most regiments pay a family’s keep. Wives cook, mend, wash and serve as nurses. And children provide a ready means of new recruits. At fourteen, boys may join up or leave the camp. Girls can marry and produce the next generation, or they must leave. Since most can’t afford passage home, ranks continue to be filled.”

  “What about widows? There must be many.”

  “For certain. Widowhood becomes a career. They are given one month to grieve before they must remarry or return home. Some have had seven or eight husbands.”

  Meadow fought Willy’s words in her mind. She had always despised the royal army. It was the arm, the strength, of England. Yet, it was easier to hate when its members were not human.

  “If soldiering is so terrible,” she asked, “why do so many join?”

  Willy shrugged. “For reasons as diverse as the men. Some are forced or tricked by recruiters. Others are born poor like me, with few options. Many are criminals given the choice between enrollment or death. Yet there are others who join for the honor, the glory, the chance to be a part of something larger than themselves; for the love of king and country.

  Yes, it was these last against whom Meadow could channel her abhorrence.

  “Willy, come see this funny crab!” Annabelle shrieked, and Willy leaped up to continue their play.

  That evening when the sun began to slant into their eyes, Meadow led three wet, weary, and wonderfully happy girls home for supper.

  ~

  Exhaustion stole over Meadow as she returned home from the stable late one evening. The summer had become strength-sappingly hot, food was rationed, and she had spent several nights prowling the city with her father or Jonathan. She had hoped for an early dismissal, but a late-arriving firewood patrol kept her busy past curfew.

  Abigail served her dinner grudgingly. Then her eyes fell on the pass Meadow had tossed on the table. She studied it shrewdly and reached for a quilt she had finished only the day before.

  “Since you have clearance anyway, I need you to deliver this to Mrs. Whitaker up on Hawkins near the Mill Pond. She promised a portion of meat from the hog they slaughtered in exchange for it, and I need the pork for breakfast.”

  With a sinking feeling, Meadow realized her bed was yet an hour away.

  The pass allowed her to walk boldly down the center of the street – a satisfying change after so many nights creeping through the darkness like a cockroach. She found Hawkins Street easily and knocked on the old lady’s door.

  “Who’s there?” came a hesitant voice.

  “It’s Wynn Wood, ma’am, on errand for my Aunt Abigail. She sent you a quilt in exchange for meat.”

  The lights grew dark within, and the door opened. “Come in, come in. I thought you’d never come.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Abigail said she would send you,” Mrs. Whitaker said, wringing her apron in her hands. “That’s why I didn’t venture out to tell Jonathan on my own.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “The British are planning to take the hills across the river!”

  “What?! How do you know this?”

  “My niece works as a maid in Province House. She overheard Gage talking to his officers this afternoon. At her first chance, she snuck over and charged me with getting the information into the proper hands. I’ve written her words down. Jonathan will know what to do.”

  Wide awake now, Meadow’s head danced with the information she’d been given. She took the paper from the woman’s shaking fingers and tucked it securely under her hat. Mrs. Whitaker thrust a heavy paper package into her arms and urged her out the door.

  The dark pressed in around Meadow, heavy now, and foreboding. She felt transparent, as though anyone could peer into her heart and see the secret she held there. Her pace quickened, and she fled before the shadows that pursued her.

  Fear made her reckless, caused her to forget the secrecy taught to her. Skidding around a corner, she smashed into a regular on patrol. He fell aside, but his partner grabbed her arm. Too late, she realized the pass in her pocket would not explain the pork in her hands.

  “What’s this?” the man glared down at her. “An alley rat out after nine o’clock?”

  “Sorry, sir. I worked late tonight, sir. I have a pass.” She rummaged through her clothing confidently and then with growing panic as it failed to appear. The paper was gone! She must have set it down at Mrs. Whitaker’s house.

  “What have we here?” The first soldier ripped open her package. “Fresh pork!” he grinned. “My regiment will appreciate it.”

  “Let’s take him in for breaking curfew.”

  Meadow hung her head and allowed the men to haul her along, one on each side, grasping her firmly by each arm. She cooperated fully, biding her time.

  Half a mile down the road, they stumbled across a body lying partially in a gutter. Still holding onto Meadow, one of the men stooped down then rose again in disgust. “Filthy, drunken colonists.”

  “What do we do with that one?”

  “Leave him. He’ll still be lying there come daybreak.”

  Just then, the intoxicated man moaned, diverting the attention of the soldiers. Meadow wrenched free and sprinted down the lane. With a shout of anger, both men pursued her.

  On a straight course th
e soldiers would have overtaken her in a moment, but she had youth and agility in her favor. And over the last months the North End streets had become as familiar to her as the fields of Ireland.

  She darted and twisted, dodging up alleys and around corners. She ducked into an abandoned building and when the soldiers passed by, she backtracked, running swiftly home.

  “Jonathan,” she screamed, pausing to catch her breath on the shop stairs. “Jonathan!”

  Abigail, dressed in only a shift and a night cap, opened the door, frowning ferociously. “Quiet, Wynn! You’ll wake the girls.”

  “I need Jonathan, is he here?” she gasped, crawling up the steps.

  “Where’s my pork? If you lost it so help me I’ll-”

  “Jonathan!”

  He appeared behind his wife dressed in his own night clothes. “Wynn, what is it?”

  In answer, she whipped Mrs. Whitaker’s paper from under her cap. Her missing pass fluttered to the floor. She shoved it back under her hat.

  He wadded the paper into a ball and threw it on the fire. “We need to call an emergency meeting. Now! Here! This cannot wait till morning. Go wake your father. He will know who to alert.”

  Meadow ran to do his bidding, and within the hour a handful of men whispered together in the back storeroom. Jonathan walked in with her father.

  “What’s that papist doing here?” someone hissed. “He don’t belong.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Carson,” Jonathan warned.

  “You’re a pope lover, Wood! I got no tolerance for his type! Just because you coddle him like an infant don’t mean the rest of us have to put up with him. Papacy is the subversion of our society.”

  A rumble of agreement met these words. Amos stood quietly with his arms crossed.

  “Amos is as honest and reliable as any man here,” Jonathan blazed. “You were glad enough of his strength when he threw the tea in the harbor, and you’ll welcome his gun when you hear what I have to say.”

  “Get on with it!”

  “The British are planning an attack,” he began, but the outcry from the men cut him off. Amos was forgotten.