The Color of Freedom (14 page)

Meadow's face burned, and the boy's merry laughter rang out again. "Even your cheeks approve of the name!"

Meadow turned on him. "Don't you have work to do? Or do civilians better heed the words of your commanding officer?"

An injured look crossed the boy's features. "Don't get sore. I'm only having a bit of fun. If you must know, I was sent to check on your work, and I'll return a glowing report, save for your social graces."

The horse suddenly let a mess fall on the clean straw. Willy disappeared and returned with a flat shovel. He grinned wryly. "Growing up in the squalor of London, I dreamed of becoming a soldier. I wanted to be a hero, to fight romantic battles like the knights of old. And so I am," he bowed, "dressed in red and scooping manure in hostile America. I'm sure the king appreciates this fine, clean stall."

Meadow met the boy's eyes, and for the first time she saw a person beneath the scarlet coat. The boy was far from home, at the end of a hard road, and he was lonely. The two of them were much the same, she realized, and her heart softened just a little.

"I'm Wynn Wood," she stated coolly. Then she smirked, "But you can call me Red."

∗ ∗ ∗

On her way home for lunch, Meadow took a detour to the Town Dock for Abigail. "I need meat from the market, even if dried fish and salt pork are all that may be had in this cursed city," the woman had said.

As she threaded her way to the Town Dock, Meadow passed countless vehicles piled high with household possessions. Patriot families, fearing retaliation by the British presence, were leaving town with whatever they could pack in a wagon while royalists flooded in, seeking asylum from the persecution in the rebel-crazed countryside. All week, the checkpoints at the Neck had been clogged with the migration.

Dock Square was the heart of Old Boston. The place had a dank, moldy smell and portions of the marketplace were falling into disrepair. At the head of the dock, a swing bridge crossed the water, opening only when ships entered or exited the cove. Nearby, Mill Creek channeled high tidewater across the city's northern peninsula and filled Mill Pond. A handful of itinerant merchants lined the square, their horses calmly swishing their tails beside parked carts. At one time, the streets must have crawled with farmers and tinsmiths, fishermen, weavers, and a hundred others from all over the countryside, but now only a few hardy souls displayed their wares.

Lounging against a wall, she spotted a jolly-looking man whose ample stomach hadn't felt the pinch of hunger. Beside him lay a catch of sea creatures.

She strolled closer, and the man roused himself with a merry smile. "How much for the large one?" she asked.

"For that fellow there? I could settle for a crown."

Meadow gasped at the figure, feeling the few coins in her hand.

"You're free to inspect him," the man offered. "Caught him off Long Wharf just this morning."

"What is it?" The fish wasn't a herring, or cod, or any species she was familiar with.

"Don't rightly know. Some kind of shark."

A dray rumbled by. The shoes of the heavy workhorses clomped on the cobbles. Somewhere very close, church bells pealed out the hour. In a moment, the sound was echoed from churches in every quarter. There could be no mistaking the hour in Boston.

Meadow leaned in closer. The fisherman smelled wicked, but the fish seemed fairly fresh, considering the warm weather. When the din died down, Meadow took a deep breath and opened her hand. "I can offer you this. Not much, but hard currency, and scarce enough these days."

He laughed heartily, his belly rising and falling. "No, young sir," he said. "Many hungry mouths drive prices up. I couldn't sell for less than three shillings."

Meadow glanced pointedly around the empty square. "The hungry mouths seem to have all gone home."

"It makes me no difference if I sell this fellow or not. Whatever is left at the end of the day I put in my belly by sundown."

Her eyes narrowed at his expansive waist. "Sales have been poor, I see."

Just then, a crowd surged up a side street and spilled into the square, shouting and swearing. At least fifty men, several women and a multitude of ragged children swarmed over the cobbles.

Someone called out to the market in general, "This is what happens to
bleedin
' Tories. See the king's friend, dressed in his elegant finery!"

Loud guffaws of laughter rang out.

Meadow caught sight of a wooden cart being pushed in the center of the crush. A peculiar man, fluffy white from his head to his toes, struggled within it, held in place by rough hands. He suddenly wrenched free and bolted through the crowd. With a start, she saw he wore nothing but the fluffy white stuff.

"What have they done?" she asked in horror.

"Tar and feathers, that's what," the fisherman stated gleefully. "You heat up a batch of pitch, pour it over top, and roll the fellow in feathers till he looks like a laying hen."

As Meadow watched, a burly sailor hit the fleeing man with a belaying pin and crumpled him to the ground. He threw the unconscious man over one shoulder and dumped him unceremoniously back into the cart.

Meadow's hands rose to her mouth, her eyes wide above them. How could the colonists commit such an act against one of their own? How could they claim to fight injustice yet torture a man who held a different view? They had given in to the same hatreds they opposed.

Someone at a nearby stall grinned and called out, "Send him to England with my blessing!"

The crowd pressed through the square and down another street, the sing-song jibes of children echoing off walls as they faded away.

For the first time, Meadow realized atrocities were not confined to the British.

"Look, mister," she said wearily, "this is all I've got. Take it or leave it."

All the jolly drained from the man's chubby cheeks. He swiped the coins from her hand and slapped the fish in its place. "Take a word of advice, boy. When it comes to Tories, they get what they've got coming. Hang your pity around your neck for all to see and you could be the next one carted through town."

∗ ∗ ∗

Meadow held the slate up to the fading light to check the childish letters written there. "Well done, Annabelle. You have improved a great deal in only one week, but you did forget the 'P'. It should read, 'L, M, N, O, P.'" She added the character to the girl's slate.

When Abigail had learned Meadow could read, she handed over the task of schooling the two oldest children. It became the most enjoyable part of Meadow's day.

"Can you tell me a word that begins with 'P'?" she asked the six-year-old.

Annabelle screwed up her face in thought, and after a moment she ventured, "Peacock?"

"Very good!"

"I heard someone say that word at market today," the little girl stated, "but I don't know what it means."

Her eavesdropping sister, with two additional years of life experience, broke in knowingly, "It's a bird with pretty feathers, right Wynn?"

"You're right, Naomi. They are very beautiful, but they know it. They strut around, lording their importance over all the other birds, just like Colonel Peacock down at the livery."

Naomi glanced at her doubtfully. "I never heard of anyone called that."

"Well, if it isn't his name, it certainly should be," Meadow began. "He came by looking for a riding crop he had forgotten, fat and proud and full of himself. When a certain stable boy that you know delivered the wrong whip, he burst into a fury and ordered the boy to move a whole pile of manure, just out of spite.

"But the next time Colonel Peacock visited the stable he forgot his previous instructions, and he was so busy barking orders that he didn't watch his step. He came around the corner, and wouldn't you know it? Head first, right into the dung heap!"

The girls giggled, but Abigail rose from her needlework and retrieved a worn Bible from above the mantle. She shoved it beneath the nose of her oldest daughter. "Enough of this nonsense. Before you retire for the evening you will read Psalm141:3-4 for your own edification
and
," she looked at Meadow, "for that of your instructor."

The light had faded almost to darkness, and Naomi squinted to make out the passage. "Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth; keep the door of my lips. Incline not my heart to any evil thing, to practice wicked works..."

While she read, Annabelle sobered contritely, but Naomi closed the book with a scowl.

"Thank you, Naomi. You are both dismissed. Wynn, help them prepare for bed and see that they don't dawdle."

"Yes, ma'am."

Lighting a candle with an ember from the hearth, Meadow ushered the girls into their parents' bedroom. The three younger children were already sleeping in the small room instead of in the kitchen because the men had not yet come home for supper. She helped the children snuggle into their blankets and tucked the coverings securely under their chins.

After saying her bedtime prayers, Naomi begged, "Wynn, tell us another story. One about the wicked British."

"Oh, please do," Annabelle joined. "You tell the best stories."

"Not tonight, girls. I still have chores to do, and besides, we don't want to wake the little ones."

"I am 'wake," four-year-old Emily called sleepily from her place on the floor. "Tell a
stowy
."

"Just tell a short one," Naomi begged. "The littlest ones don't wake up for anything."

They were so persistent that Meadow gave in. "All right," she sighed. "Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived with her father. They were very happy until one day an evil British lord stole the child and carried her to his castle far across the ocean. He gave her rags to wear and threw her into his kitchen where she slaved for many years.

"But one day, the girl - who was quite grown up by this time - caught the eye of the castle's groom, who was actually a prince in disguise, sent to spy on the evil lord. He fell in love with the young lady and fought his way into the kitchen to rescue her, felling the lord with a griddle before sweeping her away to become his bride.

"The prince's father, the good king, stripped the evil lord of his title and land and sent him to work in his tobacco fields until the day he died, a shriveled, penniless old beggar."

Annabelle smiled sleepily. "That's a good story."

"Is it true?" Naomi asked skeptically.

"Upon my honor, the story is true. At least, most of it is."

Naomi nodded decisively. "Then I liked it," she said and snuggled under her quilt.

"Good night girls," Meadow called softly as she left the room with the candle.

"I thought I told you not to dawdle," Abigail accused as she stirred the stew hanging over the coals.

"The girls asked for a short story. I thought it might help them settle."

"Stuff and nonsense. You're shirking your other duties and taking advantage of a good man's charity. Jonathan should have thrown you out on your ear days ago." She set the tin milk pail on the table with a clatter.

Meadow left with the pail and let the woman's harsh words roll off like dew on a flower petal. As she milked the old cow, she told herself she had to live somewhere as she waited for her father's indenture to run out. At least at the end of the day she could share a pleasant evening with Amos.

Heading back up the stairs with the pail full of milk, she could hear the low sound of voices. Jonathan was seated at the table spooning stew into his mouth that in no way interfered with his conversation. But Amos slowly, carefully swallowed each bite. On closer look, she saw why.

"Da! Your face!"

Amos grimaced. His left eye was black and swollen, and a scab had formed at the corner of his puffy lip. "It's nothing, lad. Just a bit of a scrape I got in today."

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Because you're Irish?"

"Because he's Catholic," Abigail said, handing Amos a wet cloth which he applied to his wounded eye. "Folks in these parts are like a flock of chickens that will peck the odd one to death. You'd best thank my husband for his generosity in naming you kin."

"It's nothing," Amos reassured his daughter when she set down the milk and knelt beside him. "Just a little skirmish."

"Skirmish nothing!" Jonathan bellowed. "Zachariah Littlefield down to the docks told your father just what he thought about papacy. Ripped him up one side and down another, and Amos didn't blink an eye. But when old Zack lit into him with a broken spar, why, that's when he learned a thing or two about Amos' McKenzie's fists!"

Jonathan chuckled. "Goodwife Littlefield has a sight more patching to do than Abigail!"

Meadow spotted the bloody rag tied around her father's knuckles.

Abigail scowled. "Must you glorify it so? Men!" she sputtered with disgust. "Always setting for a fight and leaving women to mourn and pick up the pieces."

"Wynn!" Jonathan called out heartily, "come have some of this fine stew! I tell you, no one can cook like my Abigail. She could make a banquet out of sawdust!"

Meadow caught Abigail's glare across the room. "No, thank you, sir," she replied. "I've already eaten."