The Color of Freedom (13 page)

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 buyer 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."

"Sarah Revere told me to play the part of Jonathan's nephew, if he would allow it."

He regarded her shrewdly. "I believe he would. I will ask him at dinner."

Meadow moved to the room's only window and studied the back of the store. "Will the family move home now that the weather has warmed?"

"Perhaps. But regardless, Mrs. Wood will replant her garden behind the house. If not for her preserves, we all would have starved."

Meadow leaned against the sill, trembling. What awaited her in this city of such deep-seated loyalties, prejudices and passions?

∗ ∗ ∗

Meadow and Amos reentered the store and were met by angry words drifting down from the apartment.

"Jonathan Wood, you cannot take in every beggar off the street!" a woman stormed. "Would you starve your own family in the name of Christian charity?"

"He's a stout lad, Abigail, and can earn his keep. Besides, he's Amos' son. Can we do less in good conscience?"

"Blast your conscience! Were it not for that, you would have dismissed Amos last autumn and been rid of two mouths today. We no longer have use for him at the dockside, in the shop, or to make deliveries. We have no business!"

"Exactly. So I trade out his labor for whatever it brings. Abigail, I owe him a debt of gratitude."

Amos slammed the door to announce their presence, and the voices fell silent. Meadow shuffled awkwardly up the stair behind her father.

The steps led to a small living area. A table and three chairs took up most of the space. A few open shelves held food staples and utensils, and a small work table shoved into one corner contained a pitcher and basin. Bedding was stacked against one wall beside a single closed door. A fireplace took up most of another.

Jonathan beamed at them from his place at the head of the table, and a woman glared at them from the foot. On the table sat a steaming pot of porridge. Behind the adults, awaiting their turns, stood four little girls. They ranged in age from eight down to two. A baby, awakened by the shouting, cried from behind the closed door.

"Welcome!" Jonathan cried again. "We took the liberty of starting without you, as we did not know how long you would be. There is plenty more," he lied.

As if on cue, the woman stood to fetch two more pewter porringers.

Meadow took the opportunity to study her. She guessed her age under thirty, but worry had stooped her shoulders and left its mark in the dark hair that peeped from under a ratty mobcap. She stood a little taller than Meadow, thin and sallow, but the bulge of her growing belly showed beneath her apron.

As if sensing Meadow's stare, the woman met her eyes. Meadow shrank from the hostility harbored there. Without a word, Abigail set the steaming porringers before them and disappeared into the bedroom. Soon the cries of the baby stopped.

"I apologize for my wife," Jonathan offered simply. "These days have been very difficult for her. In time, she will accept your presence, and your help she will appreciate nonetheless."

"Jonathan," Amos spoke, "perhaps this isn't the best time, but I must beg a favor of you."

"There will be no begging in my house, friend. You know I will do for you all within my power."

"Thank you. As you have heard, Gaelic barely colors my son's speech. I would implore you to make him your nephew while he remains in Boston."

Jonathan boomed out, "I'd be delighted! Wynn Wood," he turned to Meadow, "eldest son of my brother from New York, meet your cousins, Naomi, Annabelle, Emily and Sarah."

"Thank you, sir," Meadow replied quietly.

"That's Uncle Jonathan to you," he corrected, standing. "And now I'll leave you to your dinner. I must attend to business while the British army is preoccupied. Supplies are being shipped into the city by many routes, but this window of opportunity is hard-bought."

Within the week, Meadow landed a job in a livery that had been commandeered by the British to stable officers' horses. Her wages were a pittance, but she happily traded the sharp tongue of her "Aunt Abigail" for the crisp commands of Captain Buckler.

Buckler had nodded in approval as she worked a lively mare. "Aye, I could use you. If you know the front of a horse from its rear, you're ahead of half the idiots the recruiters send me."

The clatter of hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of one of her charges. A feisty bay pranced in the stable door. Before the rider rushed off on some urgent order, he threw the reins of the sweating beast to Meadow.

She walked the horse in the green behind the building until its panting regulated and steam stopped rising from its body. As she circled, she crooned and clucked and watched carefully for signs of lameness. Seeing none, she led the horse to a roomy box stall and brushed its coat until it gleamed. Then, after covering the animal, she spread fresh straw on the ground and filled the box with hay and grain.

"You're a natural, kid."

Meadow looked up to see a regular watching her over the stall, his elbows resting lightly on the door. The boy was young - barely older than her - but she had no intentions of befriending a redcoat. She frowned severely.

The boy laughed. "And more at home with beasts than man, it seems."

He jumped lightly over the wall and stretched out his hand. "I'm William Heath. Private Heath, of course, but my friends call me Willy."

Meadow pointedly turned her back.

The boy wasn't put out in the least. "I don't blame you for resenting us. Most of the men don't want to be here, either. We think the king should just leave well enough alone. But then he didn't ask our opinions. Just said, 'Go!' and we went. What's your name?"

Meadow continued to ignore him.

"If you don't have one you're willing to share, I'll grant you another you may like better." He studied her a moment. She could feel his eyes boring into her as she worked. "How about Red? It fits you well enough, though you try to hide beneath that silly hat."