Trusting her instincts, Meadow groped blindly for the alley with hands outstretched. The air felt slightly cooler and the smoke lessened as she slipped between two brick buildings. She maneuvered through the ruins until, gagging and choking, she broke free of the fire and skirted the north edge of town where the battle raged just before her.
How much time had passed she had no idea, but evening shadows were beginning to lengthen as she raced westward, caught between the inferno and the battle.
Meadow reached another gathering of homeless villagers, and her heart bled for them. She understood their shock and tears and despair. The war in America had become starkly real to them.
Without warning, Lord Dennison appeared before her. His fleshy face was stained with soot; his eyes narrowed in surprise. “How…?” he began, but she didn’t linger to answer. Bolting, she flew in the only direction open to her – the battlefield.
Dead soldiers lay heaped in mounds, making the field nearly impassable in places. Crashing through a stand of trees, Meadow made a wide circle around the skirmish and found herself on the back side of Bunker Hill where the colonial soldiers were in full retreat, rousted from their perch.
She tripped and fell headlong into the brush. Briars scratched her face and arms, but she stood quickly, only to fall again. Her twisted foot could not bear her weight.
Hearing her master panting raggedly behind her, she struggled on, crawling desperately on hands and knees.
Grating laughter mocked her. “It’s seems I’ve finally won, doesn’t it, Meadow?”
She spun around. Hathbane’s lip was curled in a snarl, and his outstretched hand brandished a dueling pistol.
Chapter 18
Meadow refused to cower any longer. She was through running. She glared up at him defiantly, eyes flashing.
“Drop the gun.” The voice came low and threatening, hard as iron.
Whirling, Meadow saw Daniel sighting down the long barrel of a rifle. His eye was cold and his hand steady. Hathbane’s face blanched beneath the young man’s aim.
“Don’t shoot!” he pleaded, throwing down his weapon and raising his hands into the air. “I beg you, spare my life!”
“I have long imagined this moment,” Daniel admitted coldly. “A lead ball is more than you deserve, but I will not shoot an unarmed man. If you repent of your ways and leave Boston forever, I’ll grant you leave in peace.”
Meadow watched, enthralled as the drama unfolded with musket balls whistling around them.
But even as Hathbane backed slowly away, a red-clad soldier with bayonet gleaming moved in on Daniel’s flank.
“Daniel, look out!” she screamed.
As he turned to deal with the new threat, Hathbane leaped for his pistol. With a smile of cruel pleasure, he took aim at the struggling boy.
A shot rang out, and the fat man fell to the field of battle with a hole through his temple.
Meadow screamed. Matthew grabbed her up and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of feed. “Let’s go!”
Daniel ran beside them. “Thank you, friend,” he called to the young black man. “You just saved two lives.”
Together, they ran down Bunker Hill and mounted Prospect Hill, beyond which a force of patriots threw up hasty trenches to await further British attacks. Matthew deposited Meadow in temporary safety and flopped beside Daniel to catch his breath.
Meadow studied the sweating, desperate faces of the men around her, none of whom seemed surprised to have an injured woman in their midst.
After a long wait, Matthew climbed the mound and peered across the battle-scarred hills. “The British must be content with their victory. They are not pursuing us.”
“Good thing. You fired the last ball in our company,” Daniel stated. “If they followed, this war would be over. Kind of them to let us try again, don’t you think?”
The men clutched their useless muskets, looking grimly back toward the east as they retreated to the safety of the American camp. Daniel and Matthew walked together, supporting Meadow between them. They stopped to rest beside a small marshy stream liberally lined with trilliums. The men plunged their faces beneath the water’s surface and drank long and deeply.
Meadow cupped the water with her hands and plopped down among a clump of small, pink flowers. She picked one, twirling the stem between her thumb and forefinger.
“Mayflowers,” Matthew said, resting beside her. “Named by the Pilgrims, ’tis said, in honor of their ship.”
Daniel dipped his entire head in the stream and let droplets soak his dusty shirt. “Ah, that’s good. I was beginning to wish for a musket ball just to slake my thirst!”
“Daniel, don’t say such a thing!” Meadow scolded.
He winked at her. “Now let me see that ankle.”
Meadow watched him twist and probe her foot with the same gentle concern he lavished on the horses at Wellshire.
“It’s not broken, but it’s swollen all right. Soak it in the stream while we rest, and you can tell me how you came to be in the middle of a battle, pursued by Half-brain and reeking like a cook fire.”
Meadow smiled at his incorrigible spirit and explained why she had fled to Charlestown.
Matthew whistled long and low. “Seems to me you have a penchant for finding trouble, lady.”
Daniel rolled his eyes. “Brother, you have no idea. Now stand up and let’s decide if you can walk or if we need to devise a litter to carry you out of here.”
They bound the ankle tightly with strips torn from her shift, and she hobbled between them all the way back to camp.
As they approached, Jonathan rushed out to greet them, looking battle-stained and weary. “I’m glad to see you fellows well,” he stated. “Meadow, your father needs you right away!”
“He’s not my father,” she flared. Her hurt and anger returned with the passing of danger, and she made to hobble stubbornly away.
Jonathan started to follow, but Daniel restrained him and chased her down himself. His eyes glinted with irritation as he grabbed her arm. “Meadow, you’re being foolish. I know you were not born to Amos, but what is it that makes a father a father? Is it blood, or is it the sweat that purchases food and shelter? A name, or the kisses that mend scraped knees? Ancestry, or the bond of love formed by years of togetherness?”
His words struck a nerve, but she shook herself free. Her heart still ached too fiercely.
Jonathan approached regretfully. “Meadow, your father has been shot.”
Her heart jolted to a stop, and her anger dissipated like gun smoke.
She clutched Jonathan’s arm. “Take me to him!”
~
Amos lay on a blanket in the gloomy heat of his shelter. His face was white and pinched with pain and his shirt drenched with red. “Meadow,” he whispered, stretching out one arm.
“Da!” she cried, rushing to kneel at his side. “Oh, Da, I’m so sorry! So, so sorry! I’ve been a boorish, headstrong ninny!”
Amos chuckled then winced. “I forgive you daughter, and I beg your forgiveness also. I should have told you long ago, but I feared at first for your safety and then for losing you.”
She stroked his face. “We have to get you to a doctor!”
“A priest would be more conducive, if one could be found.”
Her eyes grew wild and she shook her head desperately. “You can’t die! You can’t leave me!”
“Meadow, you are strong and brave. I have no doubt at all that you can care for yourself. You’ve proven it.”
She clenched her fists, and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Oh, this war!” she fumed. “Curse this horrible, bloody war!”
He clasped a hand around hers. “Never say that! Our cause is just! If I could, I would trade my life again just for you to live free.”
“No, Da!” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be free. I want you.”
Amos’ voice softened. “Meadow, listen to me. You are an American now, whether you wish it or not. This is your land. You h
ave known tyranny, now take up the fight against it!”
Her father’s sacrifice stirred a strong conviction within her. At last she knew what she must do. She looked down on his urgent face and squeezed his hand. “I will, Da,” she promised. “With my last breath, I will.”
Amos smiled and relaxed. “Meadow, my true daughter, I love you. My only regret is missing the sharing of it with you.” With that, he closed his eyes and slept.
Meadow’s tears fell silently as she crossed herself and prayed, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now at the hour of our death. Amen.”
She stayed with him through the long night, and in the cold dark of morning his spirit slipped away.
~
A round, scarlet sun smeared brilliant color over the horizon as Meadow left the tent. Stretching, she breathed deeply of the fresh morning scent, serene but deeply saddened. Limping away from camp, she perched on a large rock, pulling her mother’s letter from the folds of her ruined gown.
She unfolded the yellowing paper and smoothed out the wrinkles. The body of the letter was written in the priest’s small, cramped hand, and the words were blurred with sweat. At the bottom of the page, written with a hand that shook with weakness, her mother had signed her name in spidery letters like those that marked her Bible. Meadow ran her finger over the name before reading the brief note.
“Dearest Allison,
How blessed I am with your tiny life, yet how grieved at our turn of fortune. Evil has a way of marring the most beautiful things in life and separating those who should remain together. I pray you will grow strong and happy and always strive to hold evil at bay when the choice arises.
Now I surrender you into the hands of Father Holden and trust God to protect you in my absence. Know that your father, Lord Edward Wescott, and I have loved you very much.
Your mother,
Rosemary Donovan Wescott
Meadow reread the letter through a blur of tears. Her mother’s message seemed especially timely after the long night, and she drew encouragement from the words.
Standing, she hobbled to a ridge and watched the sun spread its reflection over the ocean in shimmering, crimson waves. In the distance, twin hills reared their scarred heads, and the memory of yesterday’s battle filled her mind.
Twice the colonists had cast their mettle against the greatest army on earth, and twice they had proven themselves able. Perhaps God had indeed blessed these shores. For the first time since the conflict began, Meadow held out hope for its outcome.
“May I join you?” Daniel’s words were as soft as the breeze.
She smiled wanly up at him. They gazed out at the battlefield for a long while without speaking. At last, Daniel voiced his concerns. “Meadow, what are you going to do now? I mean, will you return to Ireland?”
She sighed deeply and shook her head. “No, there’s nothing for me there. This is my home now.”
“Jonathan has offered his home for as long as you need one.”
“Then I’ll gladly accept. He’s a good man, and I’ve grown quite fond of his family.”
Again companionable silence stretched between them. Then Daniel turned her to face him. “Meadow, the war may last a long time, and I can make no promises to either its outcome or my health.” He paused awkwardly. “But if the end should find us both well, would you consider, I mean, would you…?”
She smiled up at him. “My answer must wait while such a span of time remains, but I can think of no higher honor.”
Daniel’s eyes twinkled, and he squeezed her in a familiar embrace. Together, they faced a dawn steeped richly in crimson – the color of blood, the color of sacrifice, the color of freedom.
####
Author’s Note
I would like to identify some of the many historical figures mentioned within The Color of Freedom. Paul Revere was a central figure in the rebellion in Boston before his midnight ride. A silversmith, he was acquainted with upper class as well as lower class and acted to pull them together. He was an active Son of Liberty, and, along with his friend Dr. Joseph Warren, a leader in the secret society that met in the Green Dragon Tavern. He also led a spy ring of thirty men from this society. After his defining ride, he played a much less important role in the Revolution.
William Dawes rode with Revere that night, and Dr. Samuel Prescott joined them in Lexington. Dawes escaped on foot and hid in a barn. It was Prescott who made it to Concord. The British officers released Revere that same night outside Lexington.
In the battle on Lexington Green, the British officer that rides the stallion is second-in-command, Major John Pitcairn – a reasonable man respected by both sides. His senior officer, Lieutenant Frances Smith, rides at the head of the late arriving troops. The American scout who escaped to warn Captain Jonas Parker that the British were a half mile out was Thaddeus Brown, and William Diamond was Parker’s young drummer. Captain Parker died in the battle. Major Pitcairn died at Bunker Hill.
Interestingly enough, after I named British Private Willy Heath, I learned there was a Major General William Heath who commanded American militia on the Battle Road.
George Washington replaced General Artemas Ward immediately following Bunker Hill.
John Blackburn was fictional, but the Salem Powder Alarm that he mentioned happened on February 27, 1775. The Winter Hill Powder Alarm occurred on September 1, 1774.
It is true that pre-Revolutionary Boston was extremely intolerant of Catholics. Priests were forbidden to live there. The mixing of ideas and people that came with war, however, softened viewpoints considerably. And with the rush of Irish immigrants a few decades later, Catholic parishes took their place in the city. But discrimination of Irish, to a great extend, continued.
As slavery almost completely replaced indentured servants as a source of labor, Matthew’s vision of full freedom and equality for Blacks, sadly, didn’t take place for nearly two hundred years.
Thanks for reading!
Connect with me on my website
or on my blog.
Check out these other Kindle titles by Michelle Isenhoff:
The Candle Star
Divided Decade Trilogy
Book Three
Detroit, 1858
After a tantrum, Emily Preston is shipped from her plantation home to her inn-keeping Uncle in Detroit. There Emily meets Malachi who challenges many ideas she grew up believing. But when she stumbles upon two run-aways hidden in her uncle’s barn, Emily must decide: should she turn them in to the slave catchers or help Malachi escort them to freedom?
Watch the trailer.
Available in the Kindle store.
Broken Ladders
Divided Decade Trilogy
Book Two
Wayland, Michigan, 1862
Hannah craves excitement, but all local adventures dried up long ago, when her parents unpacked their wagon on the Michigan frontier. Then war breaks out and her father and brother leave to fight the Confederacy. Hannah is left at home chaffing under the boredom of never-ending chores — until the farm is threatened, and Hannah finds adventure of her own.
Available in the Kindle store.
Beneath the Slashings
Divided Decade Trilogy
Book Three
Manistee River Valley, Michigan Wilderness, 1865
After four uncertain years of war, twelve-year-old Grace Nickerson is desperate to patch together what is left of her community and return to some sense of normalcy. But soon after his return, her father sells the farm and drags the family off to a lumber camp in Michigan’s northern wilderness. Will Grace ever find the peace and security she knew before the war?
(Coming Spring 2012)
The Quill Pen
If you owned a pen that wrote the future, would you use it? What if the consequences spread like ripples in a pond? What if they raged out of control? What if the pen
demanded tribute...in blood?
Watch the trailer.
Available in the Kindle store.
Song of the Mountain
Song's past is a secret closely guarded by his grandfather. Until an ancient prophecy links him to his father's death. It's been foretold, Song must follow the path that killed his father.
Available in the Kindle store.
The Color of Freedom Page 16