The Color of Freedom

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Meadow crunched over the brittle crust to a row of elm trees that bordered a small stream. Her back grew warm beneath the dark wool of her coat as she gathered bundles of dried branches. She savored the heat, storing it up against the nights that would now pass crisp and harsh without the warmth of exercise.

  Having collected a good pile, she pulled a shovel from the side of the wagon and scraped away the snow. Filling the hole with grass, she fashioned the twigs into a tent. Then, with borrowed flint and steel, she soon produced a hardy blaze.

  “Well done,” Salizar nodded as he emerged from his living quarters, a satisfied smile crinkling his faded blue eyes. “This crooked old back wonders why I didn’t hire a strong lad years ago.”

  He set bacon on to fry and her stomach growled loudly. He laughed, his face creasing into a thousand wrinkles. “I can’t afford to pay you much, but I’ve food in plenty.”

  “I won’t ask for more than my keep.”

  Silence fell between them, and Meadow could feel his eyes probing her. His unasked questions rolled loudly about the empty space.

  Feeling uncomfortable, she approached Aberdeen and stroked his muzzle. She examined him for signs of stress and ran a hand down each of his legs in search of any swelling. Lifting the huge feet, she scrutinized soles and frogs with narrowed eyes, then stood, well satisfied, and unhitched him from the wagon.

  “Not too much, now,” she warned as he bent his head at the stream. “A belly full of cold water will give you colic. You may have your grain and more water when you cool down.”

  She removed his bit and bridle and staked him to forage in the open field. His big, disk-like feet plowed furrows in the softening ground and churned it to mud. Meadow then headed back to the line of trees for some private business, completely out of sight of the peddler.

  Returning to the fire, the smells made her mouth water. Salizar chewed quickly and bolted coffee down his throat after each mouthful. He winked at her broadly. “Modest fellow, ain’t ya?” he asked.

  Meadow felt her cheeks grow warm.

  “Oh, don’t be embarrassed. I remember how ’tis at your age. Afraid someone might take too close a notice of goods not intended for public scrutiny. Every lad goes through it.”

  Mortified, Meadow stared at the ground while waves of humiliation washed over her. Then slowly, like a chunk of ice thawing in her mouth, she realized the old man would never speak so to a woman. He had been completely fooled by her disguise. The freedom that accompanied that thought produced a most unladylike snort of laughter.

  “Sit and eat,” Salizar commanded and set a platter of greasy eggs and bacon before her. He filled another tin cup with the strong, bitter coffee.

  “It’s nice to have some company besides old Aberdeen. He’s not much for conversation, you know. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  “You’re out early this year,” Meadow commented. “Not many travelers would brave winter weather and spring mud.”

  He shrugged. “I took ill last autumn and wintered with my sister. Now I’m healthy and the weather’s fair. I aim to lighten my load before I reach the coast and resupply. I’m even pondering a side trip to the beleaguered city.”

  Meadow looked up in surprise. “Boston?”

  “Aye.” He chewed another quick mouthful and washed it down. “Are you headed anywhere in particular, or just along for the ride?”

  Meadow shrugged evasively. “Don’t much care where I go, so long as I reach the coast.”

  “Ah, taking to sea, are you? I dreamed of such a life myself once.” His eyes narrowed as he looked in the fire, seeing there memories of long ago. He grinned suddenly. “Well then, Wynn, my boy, we are headed for Boston together!”

  Meadow shot him a skeptical look. “How will you enter the city? I hear it is cut off from all trade.”

  “To be sure, to be sure,” he burst out. “That does present a bit of a catch, but heavy profits stand to be made if an enterprising mind can iron out that little wrinkle.”

  “So you don’t know how to get in.”

  “No bloomin’ idea, son,” he proclaimed merrily. “No bloomin’ idea.” Then he winked, “But luck tends to plague me.”

  Meadow shrugged her shoulders recklessly and mustered her first genuine grin in a week. “To Boston, then,” she said, raising her tin cup.

  His face wrinkled with pleasure as he clanked his cup against hers. “To Boston!”

  Meadow tossed back the last of the bitter liquid with complete satisfaction.

  Chapter 5

  The days with Salizar passed quickly, the end of each setting her that much closer to her father. They traveled slowly through the countryside, stopping at every town and many private homes to peddle their wares. Often Salizar traded for clean rags and old bones which he would sell to be made into paper and fertilizer. Sometimes he bartered for home-crafted goods, but always he traded at a profit.

  The old man was no stranger to the region. He seemed to know every person they met. Many a buxom farm wife invited him in for dinner, and even more frequently, rough, work-hardened men treated him to a round of ale at a local tavern, all of which he accepted with customary humor and bluntness. Meadow followed at his heels, enjoying his quirky company and basking in the illusion of safety.

  One evening, as a purple chill descended with the sun, they pulled into the tree-lined drive of a farmhouse. Several ragged children played about the yard. They let out a collective squeal and ran, shouting, to the back door.

  “The peddler’s come!”

  “Salizar is here!”

  “Mama, come look!”

  “You’re a popular fellow,” Meadow stated.

  Salizar nodded his pleasure emphatically. “This, my boy, is the home of John and Patience Blackburn and their five strapping children. And a nobler family can’t be found, even in the highest streets of London.”

  A tall, burly man exited the house, his curling black hair fastened behind his neck with a length of twine. Dressed in homespun that stretched over taut muscles, he strode purposefully across the yard. As he came, his features split into a wide smile.

  “Salizar, you scoundrel!” he boomed, extending a callous hand. “How are you, my friend?”

  “Delighted! Delighted!” the little man beamed, bowing right off the wagon seat. “John, meet my young hand, Wynn. Wynn, John Blackburn.”

  John extended his hand, and Meadow winced with the pressure of his grip. “I’m honored,” John rumbled.

  Meadow nodded and offered the stranger a timid smile.

  John turned back to Salizar. “Come. Patience is anxious to see you. You must join us for dinner. Afterwards we’ll let her paw through your merchandise.”

  Meadow followed the men into the kitchen where a plump woman labored at a huge stone hearth that dominated one whole wall. She stirred the contents of a black cauldron suspended over the fire by a heavy iron crane. Above, a massive beam supported the low ceiling, intersected at intervals by smooth, age-blackened joists.

  “Salizar!” the woman exclaimed. She wiped her hands on her apron and gave him a brief hug. “How good to see you again!”

  This sent him into another round of energetic bowing. He looked like a chicken pecking a handful of corn. Meadow had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

  “And who is this?” Patience asked, turning to Meadow.

  Meadow fought down her humor. “My name is Wynn, ma’am.”

  “’Tis good to have you.” She surprised Meadow with a warm hug. “Salizar is getting much too old to be gallivanting about the countryside alone.”

  The men passed into the sitting room, already deep in conversation. Meadow stood awkwardly in a corner of the kitchen, watching the woman prepare the meal. “Can I help?”

  Patience smiled kindly. “Thank you, Wynn. I would appreciate a full wood box. And the water bucket is nearly empty. The pump is right behind the house.”

  Meadow grabbed the wooden bucket. Filling it presented
no problems, but chopping wood was a new task. Though her muscles had hardened, the ax outside the door felt heavy and unfamiliar. After a several awkward swings, she succeeded only in creating a few splinters.

  She leaned on the ax, sighing hopelessly. Then she spotted the pile of split wood stacked neatly beside the house. She rolled her eyes and grabbed an armload, realizing the job had probably taken John only a few minutes.

  By the time she finished her chores, the family was preparing to eat. She took her place beside Salizar on the long wooden bench, crossed herself, and bowed her head with the others.

  “Heavenly Father,” John prayed, “We thank thee for thy blessing and these friends who grace our table. Grant them safety in these uncertain times.”

  Meadow sneaked a peak at the man as he prayed. His head was bowed, and curly, black locks fell over his forehead. Thick hands rested together on the plank table.

  “Bless our fellowship tonight, and guide these colonies down your path. We thank thee for this bounty placed before us by loving hands. May it strengthen our feeble bodies. In thy Son’s precious name we ask, amen.”

  Meadow was touched by the simple prayer and the reverent way John spoke the words. He reminded her greatly of Father Holden, but she had little time to reflect on this as the plates of food were passed.

  The meal tasted delicious. Thick stew swam with chunks of beef and preserved garden vegetables, all complimented with doughy slabs of Yorkshire pudding. In addition, she most certainly smelled blueberry cobbler held somewhere in reserve.

  The children ate in silence, but John turned to Salizar with a question. “What news of the coast have you heard in your travels?”

  “Very little, I fear. I know the situation in Boston grows more desperate, but the British regulars monitor who is allowed in or out. News and supplies must be smuggled through on peril of one’s life.”

  “Since the Tea Party, the British have tightened control,” John agreed.

  “A foolish plan, the Tea Party,” Salizar remarked sourly. “What did it accomplish besides destroying good tea and drawing the ire of the authorities? Think of the profits lost.”

  “British profits,” John countered. “But it was not about tea or money. It drew attention to the fact that the British are interfering in our system of government. They tax us to pay for their blood feud with France, they disallow settlers west of the mountains, and they impose restrictions on us without letting us send representatives to join their law-making.”

  “You got your tea tax revoked,” Salizar grinned.

  “Only to be replaced by a slew of other laws. King George could have chosen no surer path to incite the people to rebellion.”

  “The rebels in Boston are preoccupied with survival.”

  John pointed his fork, “Even so, the issue won’t rest. Outspoken Whigs like James Otis, Samuel Adams, Joseph Warren and Patrick Henry will keep the people incensed with ideas of freedom. There’s even talk of breaking with England altogether.”

  Meadow gaped at the words. The idea was so audacious as to be laughable.

  “I fail to discover the wisdom in that,” Salizar hesitated. “All the colonies benefit from British trade and protection.”

  “As in Boston, you mean?” John scoffed.

  “Well spoken,” Salizar admitted, “yet without their strong military backing, our fledgling colonies would be vulnerable to the French and Spanish, and our unprotected ports would suffer raids by lawless buccaneers. Without their factories as markets for what we produce, our economy would crumble within months.”

  “You underestimate the strength and genius of the American people. Together, these colonies could grow strong even without British support.”

  “You talk treason,” Salizar cautioned.

  “I talk sense,” John countered. “As much as any other man, I wish to see us reconciled with England, but if the king continues his acts of tyranny, I will throw my lot in with the colonies should it ever come to blows.”

  “It will not come to that,” Meadow interjected softly. “The British have redoubled their efforts to spy out your powder and shot so they can move to confiscate them. They have already discovered the stores in Salem and Concord.”

  John looked up at her sharply. “How do you know this?”

  She shrugged. “The British don’t think a child can hear.”

  He stared at her intently. “Two weeks ago the British attempted a raid on a forge in Salem. It failed. The citizens held them off long enough to move the cannon housed there. And you say they also know about Concord? Who told you these things?”

  “I overheard the words of Lord Percival, an officer in his majesty’s royal marines.”

  John stood abruptly. “Many ears listen in Boston, but on the chance these whispers have not been heard, our leaders must know immediately.”

  Patience objected. “Surely you don’t intend to ride out tonight, John?”

  “The need is urgent. If the British gain our supplies, we stand no chance against them.”

  Patience grew grave, but she began gathering food for his journey.

  “How will you find the leaders?” Meadow asked. “They’ve gone into hiding.”

  “You know more than you let on,” John stated frankly.

  “I listen, sir,” she replied, eyes dropping to the table.

  “So it seems. Perhaps I was unwise to voice my opinions so strongly tonight.”

  She raised her chin and her flashing eyes met his. “Your words will not leave this room, sir. Though I think your cause is lost, I would never aid the British after what they did to my family. I hate them!”

  Her gaze did not waver. At last, he nodded. “I believe you. And to answer your question, I do not intend to find the rebel leaders, but I do have connections that can get the word where it needs to go. I will leave tonight.”

  “How far is the city, sir?” Meadow asked.

  “Riding steadily, a man can reach Boston in two days. To make it in less time would kill the horse.”

  He accepted the package his wife handed him and turned to Salizar. “I’m sorry to miss your wares, but Patience is more than qualified to choose for me.” With a wink, he kissed his wife. “Don’t let that old pirate exact one extra farthing from you, my dear.”

  Patience compressed her lips. “Be careful.”

  “Godspeed to you, John,” Salizar said. “We’ll be along in a few weeks. There’s money to be made in route.”

  “If God wills, I’ll be home long before you reach the city.” Then with a kiss for each of his silent, wide-eyed children, he departed.

  ~

  After dinner, Meadow brought armloads of merchandise into the humble sitting room for the family to look through. She watched the excited children from the corner and listened to Salizar’s familiar sales pitch. He haggled over the price of each object, but Patience bartered skillfully, doling out not a half-pence more than its worth for anything.

  Meadow shook her head in amusement. For all his peculiarities, Salizar was a shrewd businessman, and despite appearances and comments to the contrary, she realized he did quite well for himself. Money controlled his friendships, his actions, even his politics. But she still liked the old man. And to his credit, when the bargaining was done, he threw in a trinket for each of the children.

  The evening had grown late by the time the dealing ended. Patience caught sight of Meadow dozing in the corner and insisted they stay for the night. “I can arrange an extra bed and a mat for sleeping,” she offered.

  “Nay, nay,” Salizar declined. “My wagon suits me just fine, but the boy grows weary of sleeping on the hard ground. And I’ll beg a warm stall and feed for Aberdeen.”

  The thought of a real bed did sound nice after weeks of sleeping in haylofts and camping underneath the wagon. Meadow accepted gratefully.

  Patience eyed her critically. “How does a bath sound?”

  Meadow looked down at her soiled skin and clothing and grinned impishly. “Like heaven it
self, ma’am.”

  Patience nodded. “Fetch the water and I’ll heat it while you tend your master’s horse.”

  When the bath was made ready, Meadow crouched in the wooden tub with a sigh of pure contentment. She scooped up handfuls of steaming water and let it roll off her cropped hair then hunkered down as far as she could and soaked until it grew cool.

  Scooping up a handful of soft lye soap from the tin Patience had provided, she scoured laboriously at the layers of dirt, startled to rediscover the pale color of her skin beneath. She scrubbed at her hair until it felt clean once again. When she had finished, the bathwater looked like mud.

  She dried herself with a scrap of soft flannel then reached for the clean clothing Patience had lent her. The shirt and breeches belonged to John and hung like sails on her slender frame. She cinched them up tightly with a length of twine.

  Tossing her own clothes into the dirty water, she scrubbed them with the strong soap, knowing they were soiled beyond repair. Wringing the excess water from them, she wadded them into a ball and left the room.

  With all the children asleep, the house was strangely quiet. Meadow padded across the worn floor in her bare feet, stopping abruptly at the sound of whispering. Was Salizar still inside?

  Curious, but unwilling to disturb anyone, Meadow crept into the sitting room and peered around a spinning wheel. Patience sat rocking in a corner with her eyes closed, talking urgently to herself.

  With a start, Meadow realized the woman was praying. How quickly she had forgotten the woman’s husband had just ridden off on a long journey with a purpose that could label him a traitor, a hangable offense.

  She backed softly from the room, but an uncooperative floor board betrayed her. Patience glanced up. “Hello, Wynn. Feel better?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just on my way to rinse these and hang them to dry when I thought I heard something.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Meadow felt extremely awkward. “I wish there was something I could do.”