The Color of Freedom (12 page)

As she wandered deeper into the heart of the city, the lanes became narrow and crooked and lined with tall, weary buildings that leaned against one another for support. A forest of brick chimneys grew up among them. Here and there a steeple pointed the way to heaven, but not one church, she noticed, advertised mass.

She traveled in circles, becoming hopelessly lost, no closer to finding her father than when she began. She hunched her shoulders and shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets. To have come so far only to wander aimlessly around the city...

Her fingers brushed cold metal. From the forgotten depths of her coat, she pulled a chain and a tarnished silver pendant - Daniel's gift!

Her fingers tightened around it and she ran down the street, retracing her route. Within a few minutes, she stood under a dangling sign that creaked in the breeze. Painted on the sign was a picture of two interlocked rings; one gold, the other silver.

Meadow pressed her face to the shop window as church bells tolled out nine o'clock. An old man sat with his back to her, bent over a table draped with an oily cloth. Before him perched a pair of silver candlesticks and a jar of reddish powder.

She entered, and the door brushed against a little bell that tinkled overhead.

The man looked up. He was old. Very old, but his face wrinkled in a cheery smile. His teeth, Meadow saw, were made of wood and his hair gleamed snow white. Could this ancient fellow be Daniel's mother's friend?

"I'll be with you in a moment," he declared, squinting at her. "I'm almost finished polishing up this order."

He gave one of the candlesticks a few more strokes then wiped his hands on a leather apron and shuffled over. "What can I do for you, young man?"

Meadow held out the necklace. "Please, sir, I'm wondering if you've ever seen this before. I'm looking for the man who made it."

He held the pendant up to the light, his bushy eyebrows bouncing up and down as he examined it. "No, no, I can't say I've ever seen it."

"It was given to my friend's mother by a childhood playmate," she explained.

"Aye, a rough piece of work," he nodded. "Though I can't identify it, I can clean it up so we can see it better."

So saying, the man grabbed the damp rag he had been working with and dipped a corner into the red powder. He rubbed the necklace with practiced movements, turning it this way and that. He held it up to the window, squinting, then returned to his task.

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."

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."