The Color of Freedom (21 page)

But how many were left to extend kindness to? Had any escaped the madness of Lord Heathcliff? And without Father Holden, how could she prove her identity with only a name written in a Bible?

Then there was the threat of Heathcliff himself. While she worked to establish her claim, would she suddenly come up missing only to be found dead in a ravine weeks later?

No, she decided, it would be better to let him keep his ill-gotten estate and answer for his misdeeds at the hand of a greater Power. But she could not return to Amos. She would never trust him again. He was not even her father!

She lost all sense of time in her numb state. Minutes - or was it hours? - later she pushed aside a heavy veil of branches to reveal the mouth of the Charles River spread out below. Far ahead, the lights of Charlestown twinkled. Like a moth, she pressed toward them, caring nothing for what morning might bring.

Still clutching the letter, Meadow settled herself in the doorway of a shop on the edge of town and let merciful sleep overcome her at last.

∗ ∗ ∗

Meadow was awakened by cannon fire that shook the ground and made the buildings tremble. Boston was visible just across the Charles, but the noise came from the river.

A gray haze lay on the surface of the water like the hot breath of a dragon, and the horizon glared white and sultry. By some trick of the dawn, the warships seemed close and magnified, and from them the bombardment ensued.

Following the arch of the projectiles, Meadow discerned a black mar of freshly turned earth on the crest of Breed's Hill north of town. While she had slept, the order to act had finally been given. While darkness concealed their movements, the army of Massachusetts had begun a redoubt and could be seen in the early light completing it, taunting the British watchdogs below.

Meadow applauded their ingenuity. The British, she knew, could ill afford such a bold affront to their authority, but even her untrained eye could see the difficulty they would face attacking entrenched men on high ground.

But first they had to move thousands of men and all their equipment across the Charles. Even the most organized army required time for a movement of such magnitude.

Meadow spent an anxious morning observing the workings of the king's men and wondering if Daniel and Matthew labored atop the hill. She longed to go to them, but she refused to face Amos. In fact, she worked hard to forget him altogether.

Before late morning, most of the villagers lined the shores of the river, gawking at the troop movements. As the sun climbed higher, baking the land below, many of the observers retired to the shade or fanned themselves wearily.

Meadow settled beneath the shade of a chestnut tree and watched an elderly couple share a picnic. A gentle breeze wafted from the ocean.

The round-cheeked woman offered her a sandwich, thick with generous slabs of meat. "Here, dear, we have plenty," she smiled. "And there are cookies and apples, too."

Meadow's eyes bulged at the bounty after weeks in beleaguered Boston. She had little enough appetite, but she took the sandwich reverently.

"It's a beautiful day for a picnic, don't you think?" the woman asked. "And entertainment such as we never see on a summer's afternoon."

She seemed not at all affected by the searing heat or the looming battle. Meadow doubted any of the woman's loved ones were in danger.

After thanking her benefactors, Meadow moved again to the edge of the river where a young solder harassed the crowd. "Move away there! Make room for the guest of a British officer."

Turning, the young man assisted a fat companion into a chair. "Your nephew promised a display of British strength during your visit and now you shall surely have it. Here on the closer shore you will have an unobstructed view of the glorious battle."

"Thank you, soldier. And thank Lord Percival for me," came a voice that turned Meadow's blood to ice. "It is kind of you to accommodate me. I am sure I won't be disappointed."

The people about Meadow grumbled and glared accusingly at the pair, and as they moved away, she confirmed with her eyes what she already knew in her heart. Lord
Hathbane
Dennison sat before her like the devil himself come in human form.

Backing away in horror, old fears assailed her. After so many months, how had her master found his way to the very village to which she ran, not two days out of her disguise? Her courage failed even as the barrage of cannon fire picked up, marking the first wave of boats ferrying scarlet-clad men around the peninsula. She retreated to the center of town.

Kicking up a fine dust that whitened her gown, she paced the streets in the afternoon heat, listening to the roar of battle. The pounding of artillery erupted from
Copp's
Hill in Boston and joined the boom of the ships. The combined thunder rattled the windows and echoed in her chest.

Meadow felt lost. She wandered between the buildings like a dingy drifting on the Charles with its moorings severed. Where would she go now? Amos, so long her anchor, no longer tied her to Boston. All of America - all of the world - lay open to her but she didn't belong anywhere.

Her blood pumped with the rhythm of explosions. Daniel, at least, had proven true. She couldn't stay tucked away among the alleys if he was among the whistling shells bombarding the heights. She peered up at the redoubt from the edge of town.

The pounding, she noticed, had stopped. In its place rose a measured drumbeat as the force of regulars advanced on the American flank. The noise sounded thin and weak after hours of bombardment.

The hilltop remained still.

Meadow watched the red lines weave over fences and split around trees and rocks. But still they kept moving, closer and closer to the guns trained on them from above. Grudgingly, she admired their bravery.

Nothing moved on the hill. Would the Americans never shoot?

Suddenly, gunfire erupted in staccato pops then melded into a single wavering crash that rained lead down on the closing troops. The pulsation ebbed and flowed, lingering on and on. The British returned fire, formed up in stiff ranks that never faltered as one by one its members fell.

Meadow couldn't watch. She withdrew behind a building until silence lay over the battleground once more, as thick and still as death.

Through the haze of heat and smoke, Meadow could see the British forces regrouping. They had drawn back to the boats in confusion, stunned by the ferocity of the colonists. The hill was strewn with red-clad men. She could hear them moaning and calling for water as the sun blazed down on them. But the losses atop the heights remained hidden.

The loud crack of a rifle ripped the air very close by. Ducking instinctively, Meadow spotted several snipers hidden among the houses. The American sharpshooters had sneaked into town, flanked the British, and were picking off their officers at close range.

"Get back, girl!" one of them yelled to her as he reloaded his rifle with the speed of long practice. "Don't you know there's a war going on?"

Meadow quickly complied. Cowering in the shade of a doorway, she covered her head with her arms. The snare drums wavered out their beat as the battle renewed itself. She sat for what felt like hours, sick with dread, her head aching from the heat and the constant pounding.

When the noise died again to a scattered popping, Meadow crawled from her refuge. Stiff and sore, she stretched her back and paced before the shop.

Then the boom of artillery took up where the muskets left off.

The sun had drifted to the west, and the salty breeze fought to alleviate some of the heat. It pushed at the damp tendrils that hung against her face and blew coils of smoke about the narrow street.

Meadow coughed. Where had the smoke come from? Not the sharp, acrid smell of powder, this was wood smoke, and it billowed in a choking cloud.

Far down the street, Meadow heard screaming. Women and children streamed down the road loaded with everything they could carry.

A little boy wearing one shoe toddled towards her, clutching a ragged cloth dog and sobbing, "Mama! Mama!"

The sight clicked in Meadow's memory. The British had set Charlestown ablaze!

She scooped up the toddler and ran with him toward the river, away from the fire, away from the battle, and set him on a shore filling with townspeople where boats were being loaded and launched. Already the river was awash with refugees fleeing to the safety of Boston. Meadow hoped someone would recognize the child. She ran back toward the fire to assist where she could.

The smoke roiled in a great ceiling that blocked out the sun, and the heat and crackle of flames spread, fanned by the breeze.

A vice-like grip suddenly encircled her arm. Paws as strong as a grizzly's whirled her around. She stared into the cruel eyes of Lord Dennison.

"I found you, you little vixen!" he sneered. "You and I have some unfinished business to attend to!"

He dragged her down the street. Struck dumb with terror, she didn't even protest.

Just then, a frightened horse bolted through the veil of smoke, pulling an overloaded wagon. "Look out!" the driver yelled.

Dennison sprang to the side, losing his hold on Meadow. She fled back toward the fire just as a third assault began on Breed's Hill.

Bent over, she tried to run below the choking fumes. Flames blazed all around her, scorching her skin, but she could hear her master coughing behind her, calling out threats and curses, so she pressed on, dodging around corners and running up streets clogged with burning debris.

She finally outran the sound of pursuit, and Dennison's voice rang out like a trumpet of defeat. "I hope you die in there, Meadow McKenzie!" he screamed. Then she heard nothing over the roar of flames.

Completely disoriented, Meadow searched for a way out, but everywhere she turned the world burned. Drenched with sweat, singed and blackened with soot, she despaired of ever finding deliverance when, for a brief moment, the breeze died back, revealing a narrow passage of escape before the curtain of smoke drew over it again.

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.

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."