The Color of Freedom (15 page)

The craggy man pushed his bowl away in satisfaction. "There's nothing like coming home to such fare after a hard day's work. Your father and I spent the afternoon tearing down an outbuilding on my property and sold the timber for firewood."

He reached into his pocket and tinkled a few coins onto the table. "We traded for bread and meat and enough money to ensure food aplenty this week."

The sight of the coins jogged Meadow's memory. She reached into her own pocket. "Nor will we starve the week after that. I received my pay today, too. It's yours." She placed her wages on top of his.

Jonathan frowned. "You do not share your father's indenture. Keep it, except a bit for board."

But Meadow shook her head. "What use do I have for money when those around me go hungry?"

Slowly, a smile spread across Jonathan's face. "Didn't I tell you he'd earn his keep?" he boomed to Abigail.

The woman sniffed and placed the money in an earthenware crock.

Amos winked at her with his good eye, and Meadow retreated to their loft with the warm assurance of her father's pride.

Spring warmed, and the huge army of minutemen remained camped in the hills beyond Boston despite British demands that they surrender their arms. Their number had swelled to double that of the British, who watched them with a mixture of contempt and apprehension while waiting for orders that never came.

On a day free of the stable, Meadow led Penelope down Common Street to the pasture shared by all the townsfolk. The cow was drying up, but her swollen flank indicated the growing calf that would renew her milk production come summer.

As the animal grazed, Meadow amused herself by watching the activity in the British camp. Just before her, three infantry battalions scarred the green with long, white rows of tents. The clamor and the stench of such a mass of people floated across the field to her, and she wished no occasion to venture nearer.

Beyond the tents, on a small, round knoll, cannon watched the water like sentries, guarding against a rebel landing. Away to the southwest, a smear of black marked the redoubt near the burial grounds, and another graced Fox Hill across the marsh at the river's edge. To her right, windmills circled lazily on a high ridge of land.

"Why, Wynn McKenzie, I've wondered how you've been."

Meadow whirled in time to see Sarah Revere slap a hand across her mouth. "I mean Wynn Wood," she amended.

"Hello, Sarah, have you heard from your father?"

"Indeed! We received a letter only days after your visit."

Meadow hid her surprise well. She felt a surge of relief for her friend.

"He's been busy riding for the Committee of Correspondence, taking messages back and forth between the colonies. He has moved to Watertown where we'll soon be joining him. We were lucky to get a pass from General Gage. No one is allowed to enter or leave the city without one anymore."

Sarah moved to scratch Penelope's back. "So many Whigs have are already gone, I wonder who's left to lead the Sons of Liberty."

Meadow watched a skinny, sooty chimney sweep cut across the pasture, his tools slung over his shoulder. "I've heard it said that no matter how many leaders are removed, more always step in to fill their places."

"I suppose you're right," Sarah conceded. "There will always be patriots in position to overhear and deliver information. The British can do nothing in secret."

Sarah gave the cow a final pat. "I really must be about my errand for my stepmother. I'm glad I got to see you before I leave. I don't know when or if I'll ever return." She gazed wistfully around the common.

Regret caught in Meadow's throat. Here was someone she could have shared a special friendship with if things had worked out differently. She caught her friend's hand. "May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face, and the rains fall soft upon your fields, and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand."

"That's lovely," Sarah smiled. "I'm not familiar with the poet."

"It's an Irish Blessing, as old as the rocks of my homeland. It's what I pray for you, for your kindness to me."

∗ ∗ ∗

That evening Amos never retired. Meadow curled up in the fragrant hay waiting for him. She had plenty of apprehensions, the next day being her first Sabbath on which she was not required at the stable. She must have fallen asleep waiting, for she woke up to her father climbing the loft just before dawn.

"Da?"

"Aye, Chickadee, go back to sleep."

"It's almost time to milk Penelope. I'm awake," she said yawning. "Where were you?"

"I suppose I can't hide it from you, dear girl. I was out keeping an eye on our enemies with Jonathan."

"What?!" she flew from her bed. "You're a spy for the rebels?"

"Keep your voice down, lass. The British, they'd frown on it, they would."

"I thought the patriots wouldn't have you join their cause," she hissed.

"They wouldn't, but Jonathan would. He meets regularly in a North End tavern and keeps me abreast of happenings. The men take turns seeking information. I often accompany him at night."

It seemed the Sons of Liberty certainly were alive and well, even with their leadership removed, though Meadow never would have guessed her father was one of those pairs of eyes and ears Sarah had mentioned.

"You must never breath a word of this, daughter."

"Of course I won't." One more secret to keep, but another pressed her more urgently. "What do I do today? I am Jonathan's nephew. I'll be expected to attend services with him."

"Then go."

"But he's Protestant!"

"We serve the same God. Go with him. But in your heart, be a Catholic until the time comes when we can be free."

Her heart rebelled at the thought. "What will you do?"

"Stay here and hold mass as I do every Sunday."

"But you're no priest."

"No, I'm not. Priests are forbidden to settle here on pain of death. God understands we must make due with what we are allotted."

"Wait for me, Da. When I return I will join you."

∗ ∗ ∗

The doors of Christ Church were open wide to the fine morning in hopes that it might warm the interior. Meadow filed up the stairs to one of the balconies that stretched from front to back along both sides of the auditorium. From her seat, she could look down into two double rows of box pews, some occupied by families, many empty.

Jonathan leaned over and whispered. "We used to own that one right there, but when money ran out we had to sell it."

When she met her father in this very building, she retained only impressions of a spacious interior. Now she studied the arches and pillars that made the lofty ceiling seem even higher. An impressive, round-topped window dominated the podium, and many thinner replicas stretched from floor to ceiling, flooding the sanctuary with light and illuminating its ornamental plasterwork.

A priest in Episcopalian robes took the stage. The songs and proceedings of the service were unfamiliar, and Meadow found her mind wandering back to the tiny church of her childhood. Memories of long-ago friends helped fill the unending hour.

But a ruckus at the open doorway interrupted her daydreams. Two soldiers in the King's red leaned against the doorjambs and yelled profanities into the church.

"Hey Smithfield!" one of them called. "What do you call the wife of a Yankee rebel?"

"I don't know about you, but I'd call her a whore!"

A collective gasp whispered about the room. Small ears were covered and two stern-faced rectors rose to shut the doors.

"What do you get when you cross a stew kettle, a tavern wench and a minister's robe?"

BOOM! The noise of the slamming doors echoed through the cavernous interior. The brave priest tried to continue, but the gathering of redcoats outside grew larger and their sport grew louder. They pounded on the doors and sang vulgar sailing songs through the windows with gusto. When they began marching around the church to a fifer piping out "Yankee Doodle," even the minister gave up.

"You are dismissed. Please don't start any fights outside this house of worship. This is the Lord's day," he reminded the angry congregation. "I will personally speak with General Gage to ensure this kind of mockery does not repeat itself."

But the warning failed to rein in Abigail. Upon leaving, she stormed the nearest soldier, smashing her reticule against his head. "It's not enough that you commence drinking and gambling and horseracing on our Common each Sabbath? Must you disturb our worship as well?"

"
Ow
! Now look here, wench," began the furious soldier, but his friend pulled him away. "We've orders not to touch them. Major Pitcairn would horsewhip you."

Jonathan's face was a mask of fury. "Let's go," he commanded, leading his wife by the elbow.

Later, Meadow chuckled as she recalled Abigail's antics to her father, but he didn't laugh. "They push for war," he said.

"Please, Da. No talk of war today."

In place of a crucifix, Meadow hung her antique rosary on a peg in the loft. It had been five years since she had attended a mass. Her heart overflowed as she sank to her knees beside her father. In the light of one small candle, she signed the cross and whispered the sweet words of old prayers.

∗ ∗ ∗

Several days later, Meadow entered the livery to find Willy bent over a trough in an extra stall, his scarlet jacket hanging neatly on a nail.

"Hey, Red," he called with a grin. "I finally discovered an advantage to working in a stable. Troughs make excellent wash tubs." He held aloft a pair of undergarments he had been scrubbing. She noticed two more and a pair of breeches tossed over a stall to dry.

"When you finish, be certain to rinse your tub out well or the horses will choke on their libation," she told him dryly.

He feigned injury. "Don't be so hard on a poor soldier. At least I wash my unmentionables on occasion. Some of the fellows I bunk with haven't taken theirs off since leaving dear old England."

Meadow cringed.

There was a commotion in the doorway, and a voice boomed through the stable. "Heath! What in thunder are you doing, Private? This isn't a laundry. Take it outside!"

Willy snapped to attention. "Yes, sir! Sorry, Captain Buckler, sir!"

Meadow bit back a laugh as the boy snatched his clothing from the wall and struggled to remove the heavy trough. He dropped his clean breeches on the floor and splashed water all down himself. When she noticed the amusement on the faces of the captain and his companion, her pleasure turned to indignation.

"You, boy!" Buckler called to her. "I need a horse saddled immediately."

She jumped to work, rushing to secure a rested animal from the paddock behind the building. On reentering the stable in search of blanket and tack, she found the men talking together freely. She paused behind a partition and listened to their words.

"I'll wager General Gage wasn't pleased when the
Cerberus
docked today," stated the visiting lieutenant. "Imagine the king sending him
three
additional generals with the fresh troops. He probably smells the doom of his career."

The captain smirked, "If you ask me, that's like having too many women in one kitchen. What a squabbling they'll set up about how to run this war."

"Especially three such different temperaments," the lieutenant agreed. "Imagine Burgoyne, Howe and Clinton agreeing on anything. Yes, Gage will have his hands full all right."

"Maybe they'll light a fire under his tail and something will finally get done about these blasted rebels camped out in the hills, hemming us in this accursed city. I don't know why we don't just drive them away."

"Why bother?" the lieutenant sneered. "They will weaken and disintegrate of their own accord."

Meadow snuck back out the way she had come in and returned leading the horse.

"What took you so long?" Buckler complained.

"She's a spirited one, sir, with no wish to be caught," Meadow made excuse.

She hustled to position the saddle and cloth, considering the statements she had overheard. The last thing Boston needed was more British troops. Already they made up nearly a quarter of the city's population, filling Boston Common and many public buildings as well. Even private homes had been pressed into housing officers.

Meadow gave the girth strap a sharp tug, causing the horse to toss its head. She patted it gently and delivered the reins to the lieutenant. He mounted and wheeled in one easy motion, then horse and rider disappeared down the street at a gallop.

∗ ∗ ∗

Walking home that evening, Meadow spied a pile of soiled chicken feathers in the gutter. It seemed everywhere she went she found reminders of the whirlwind spinning out of control around her. She could not leave; her father still had two years left of his indenture. But if she stayed, she would certainly be caught up in the hostilities.

What was the war all about, really? A few pence in taxes? A handful of unsatisfactory laws? Sovereignty?