The Color of Freedom

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “True enough. Funny, though, I’ve never met you before,” John shrugged. “Got any objections to a pint of cider, preacher?”

  Duncan smiled expansively, “Sometimes it’s the very thing to warm one in winter or cool one in summer.”

  “And in early spring?” Meadow asked caustically.

  Duncan laughed heartily, and within minutes the four of them sat around a table in the Yellow Dog tavern. A young blond woman brought mugs of amber liquid and scuttled about the room removing dishes and filling tankards from a pewter pitcher. An apron covered her skirts and tied tightly at her middle, emphasizing her slender waist.

  Meadow envied the girl’s long tresses and her sweeping dress. She wished she could escape her disguise and drop her coarse manners even for one brief night and enjoy feeling feminine once again. Instead, she gulped down black coffee and chuckled heartily at some foolish comment her companions made.

  As the season was still early for planting crops, several restless farmers joined the townsmen for the evening’s socializing. They left dripping overcoats and tricorne hats steaming beside the hearth. A curly-haired dog snuffled noisily at some crumbs that had dropped beneath a table then lied under its master’s chair.

  The conversation hummed about the low-ceilinged room and came to rest, predictably, around British aggression. It grew louder and more animated as the night wore on and the men filled themselves with liquor.

  “I say we organize and stick it to the redcoats now, before they have a chance to prepare,” bellowed one hothead who was missing several teeth.

  “You speak foolishly of civil war, Edwards. You must not forget most of us have English blood in our veins. It would be brother against brother,” a calmer voice reasoned.

  “That’s right,” spoke another. “I have a brother-in-law wearing the uniform of the British regulars and no wish to make war against him.”

  “Then you have my sympathies, Jackson, but not my regrets. With Boston Harbor closed, I have to ship my corn and barley all the way to ¬Salem to see them aboard ship. It cuts into my profits and it’s a ruddy pain in the arse. I’d like to see every one of them blasted Lobsterbacks on a leaky ship back to England, including your brother-in-law!”

  “Curb your volume, Edwards. What would your poor wife do if you lent your neck to a rope?”

  “Blast it all, Simms! I don’t care. I won’t take any more of their meddlin’ in our affairs,” he roared.

  “Them’s British ships you set your crops on,” Jackson spoke again. “How will you make a profit without a vessel to ship on? The king abuses us, ’tis true, but consider the future. We’d do best to reconcile our differences in a civilized manner.”

  “The time for civility’s passed!”

  “If they take military action against us, I will stand with you,” Jackson admitted, “but the situation calls for cooler heads than yours, or we are all dead men.”

  John Blackburn spoke in a low voice to those who shared his table. “Jackson speaks for most, hereabouts. They complain loudly, but still wish in their hearts for a peaceful return to the way things used to be. The time is fast approaching, however, when they will no longer tolerate the abuses heaped on them. Even now the land is a tender box, easily set off by the slightest provocation. Moderates could be pushed to take views as hard as Edward’s, or worse.”

  “More’s the pity no tavern can be found large enough to accommodate the whole divided empire,” Duncan began, holding up his mug and turning on the charm. “By morning, brew this good might search out common ground between us all.”

  He consumed many pints and joined heartily into the tavern’s conversation. Salizar encouraged him in his story telling, and he plunged into a humorous tale about a meddlesome woman. Soon the little table swarmed with locals hanging on his words.

  “‘Next time you think up such a cockamamie accusation,’ the constable said, ‘whisper it in this broken bucket before you come see me. Then maybe it will leak out onto the ground before you get here and give us all some peace.’ And with that, he slapped the bucket onto the widow’s table,” Duncan finished, sending his admirers into gales of laughter.

  “Ah, no more, Duncan lad,” Salizar pleaded, holding his chest. “My palpeations!”

  Meadow withdrew from the company and settled beside the hearth to rid her clothing of its clinging dampness. John joined her. “Hard-drinking preacher, ain’t he? Asks a lot of questions and spouts complaints not fittin’ with a traveling minister’s position.”

  Meadow frowned. “He’s charmed them all.”

  “All but two,” he said pointedly.

  He yawned and stretched, his muscles taut and extended. He reminded her of a tomcat awakened from a snooze.

  “The hour grows late. Take care on your journey tomorrow. Danger grows as you near Boston.” With those words, John excused himself.

  ~

  The next morning, Meadow found herself crowded among the varied wagons of another farmer’s market. After milking every last penny from his customers and receiving no invitations, Salizar pulled out of the town quite late. Meadow perched beside the little man in the wagon, and as had become his habit, Duncan rode alongside, showing no sign of the liquor he had consumed the night before. He whistled cheerfully, if out of tune, but the noise of it grated on Meadow’s nerves like a droning gnat.

  “Do you have to do that?” she snapped.

  “Do what?”

  “Whistle that confounded tune.”

  “I could sing it if you’d rather,” he grinned, and broke out in chorus, “Yankee doodle keep it up. Yankee doodle dandy. Mind the music and the step and with the girls be handy.”

  “What a horrid song!” she exclaimed. “You mock the colonists!”

  “Surely not I. It’s a British song, but catchy,” he twinkled.

  She could see he enjoyed provoking her and it made her angrier. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be getting along to?” she suggested. “Somewhere far from here?”

  “Well, now you’ve done it. You’ve hurt my feelings!” he exclaimed in mock dismay.

  “Wynn, be kind to our guest!” Salizar reprimanded, but she had just begun.

  “You’ve long since worn out your welcome. You eat our food but contribute nothing but talk, talk, talk. You may charm others into doing whatever you please, but I can see through you. You’re a lazy, drunken excuse for a preacher if I’ve ever seen one, and I believe it’s time we part our ways.”

  Meadow could see a real flush of anger begin low on Duncan’s neck and spread to his cheeks.

  “Wynn!” Salizar repeated, shocked. “You’ve no call to go saying that to our guest.”

  “No, it’s all right,” Duncan stated, but his voice had lost its lightness, and a new glint replaced the humor in his eye. “I do need to be getting on, and your rig travels a mite slow. I’ll be taking my leave of you both.” He tipped his hat and bowed low over his mount. With a show of dignity, he turned to Meadow. “Wynn, my good lad, I will be in much prayer over the state of your soul.”

  She felt color creeping up her own neck. “And I, sir, will be certain to pray for yours!” she snapped acidly as he spurred his horse and led his pack animal up the road.

  “I declare, Wynn,” Salizar said, slouching in dismay as he watched the man go, “you’ve been ornery as a woman of late.”

  Meadow’s mouth dropped open then snapped shut with a click. She whirled to face the front and refused to speak for the rest of the afternoon.

  ~

  The rain had let up, but the world lay soggy and muddy under a clearing sky. Twice the wagon bogged down, so they made camp early, tension still heavy between them.

  “There’s another town close ahead, but I just don’t have the heart to continue tonight,” Salizar declared. “We’ll pull in tomorrow morning.”

  The old man turned in, as glum as Meadow had ever seen him.

  Meadow rolled her blankets onto a woven mat underneath the wagon but immediately felt mud
soak through to her skin. Uncomfortable and distraught, she lay awake a long while listening to the sound of night creatures. Not far away, Aberdeen chomped contentedly at the tender new grasses.

  Late into the night, she threw her blankets aside and rolled from her bed.

  An owl swooped overhead, gliding on silent wings. The moon played hide-and-seek in the thin clouds, casting a silvery sheen over the fields then greedily snatching it back again. In the uncertain light, Meadow pulled her coat tight to trap what body heat she could and wandered back to the ribbon of road, following it eastward toward the ever-elusive city.

  A strong impatience took hold of her. She became almost desperate for this long journey to be over. To be warm and safe and dry. To feel the security of her father’s strong arms about her once again, shielding and protecting her as they had done when she was a child.

  But she was no longer a child, and the whole world had turned upside down. Peace and safety had become mere illusions. The future wavered like a cloud, like a mist that blocks one’s view, with no form or solidarity.

  In a moment of weakness, Meadow sat under the shelter of a huge boulder and buried her head in her arms, too tired to weep.

  Reaching into her coat pocket, she removed her Bible and stroked the cracked cover, drawing comfort from its familiar scent. She wound her rosary around her hand and breathed the comfortable words of The Apostle’s Creed, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary…”

  She hunched beneath the rock, swaying with the rhythm of her grief, at last falling into a restless slumber.

  Long after midnight, the muffled echo of hooves pounded the road ahead. Shouts rent the night air like paper. Awakened, Meadow jumped behind a low stone wall that separated the road from the field beyond and cautiously peered out over its top.

  Across the moon-speckled darkness, several riders splashed recklessly through the mud. Only a fool, she knew, would ride so hard under such treacherous conditions. A fool – or an alarmist.

  As they passed an isolated house, the shouts wavered again, forming into urgent words that caused her breath to catch in fright.

  “Wake up! The army is coming! The regulars are out. Make ready! The troops are marching from Boston!”

  So focused was she on the three riders pounding from the east that Meadow failed to hear more approaching through the field across the road.

  Suddenly, a mounted patrol of four British officers with pistols drawn surrounded the riders, pulling them up short. Frightened, one of the horses reared wildly, throwing its passenger who scrambled away into the darkness.

  In the confusion, someone gave a shout and both remaining riders spurred their mounts. One cleared the top of the wall twenty yards from Meadow and thudded away across the field with two officers in pursuit, but fortune failed the last rider. He thundered past, heading for a small wood just as six officers galloped out of it. “Stop! If you go an inch further, you are a dead man!”

  One of the officers grasped the bridle of the winded horse, and his words reached Meadow in the stillness. “Sir, what is your name?” he asked.

  The man raised a defiant chin. “It’s Revere.”

  “Paul Revere?” Meadow heard the man’s surprise.

  “A fortunate catch,” one rider growled.

  Another taunted, “Just wait till you see what we do with spies and messengers and bleedin’ Sons of Liberty.”

  “Sons of Iniquity, you mean,” declared a third.

  Revere stared them down. “Your plan to raid the magazine at Concord is well known. The country is being alerted. There will be five hundred militiamen awaiting you in Lexington.”

  There were exclamations of astonishment. “Five hundred? You’re lying!”

  “I consider myself a man of truth.”

  It took only a moment for the commanding officer to take the matter in hand. “Bring him along before the whole countryside comes down on us.”

  With that, they took to the road again, leading their unlucky captive. They passed Meadow just as the moon shone full through the fickle clouds. The captured man’s shoulders were broad under a flowing cloak, his features strong and determined. Then they were gone, disappearing in the direction from which the riders first appeared.

  Terrified, Meadow burrowed deep within the bushes as church bells, drums and even gunshots relayed the alarm deep into the countryside.

  ~

  When Meadow staggered into camp an hour later cold, stiff and sore, she woke Salizar and poured out the night’s events. He jerked free of the tangled bedding. “You should have told me sooner. We must start for town without delay!”

  Within minutes, Meadow had Aberdeen harnessed in his traces and coaxed to a rusty trot. As they sloshed through the ruts, the din from the jangling wares sounded harsh and unwelcome in the sleepy, predawn gloom.

  Before they traveled a mile, a mounted patrol accosted them.

  “Stay your wagon!” yelled a dark figure. White crisscross straps showed in the gloom, plainly marking him as an officer. Three others spilled across the road.

  Meadow glared as one of the men roughly grasped Aberdeen’s bridle. Two others dismounted and circled behind the wagon with a dim lantern where they rummaged beneath the canvas tarp.

  “And where would you be sneakin’ off to like rats in the dark?” asked the officer, spurring his mount close to the wagon with his hand on the hilt of a sword. “Up to no good, most likely? Along with the rest of the filth in these accursed colonies. Out of the wagon, old man. And you, too, boy. On the ground!”

  Meadow’s legs felt like warm butter as she leaped down and stood near Salizar, but her eyes flashed dangerously. How she’d like to run the haughty soldier through with the point of his own blade!

  “I’m only a poor traveling merchant, sir,” Salizar groveled, at his meekest. “A humble servant of the king. The boy and I earn our bread selling wares to the townsfolk hereabout. We are on our way to the coast to resupply. We heard a clamor and seek the safety of a town.”

  “I don’t believe you,” the officer sneered. As his horse danced around them he brought the point of his sword up to the level of Salizar’s neck. “And it will be your dishonest blood I spill if you prove false!”

  “It’s true!” Meadow yelled. “He’s an old man, of no harm to you! Leave him alone!”

  “Wynn, no!” Salizar cried.

  But the officer had already narrowed his eyes and shifted his attention to Meadow. Steel caressed her neck. “Perhaps you fancy yourself a hero, boy,” he mocked.

  “He’s a rag and bone man, all right,” called one of the rummagers, “and still hauling some wares.”

  The officer sneered down at them in the dark. “Probably smuggled goods that haven’t been properly taxed.” He called to the man in the rear, “Anything in there fixing payment for his majesty’s troops?”

  “Aye, sir. A fine knife, and a canteen to replace the one the horse stepped on.”

  “Bring them around!”

  The soldier carried the items to the front where the officer looked them over appreciatively beneath the glare of the lantern. He slipped the knife into the waistline of his leggings and strapped the canteen over a shoulder. “Fine wares indeed, sir. Your donation is appreciated,” he taunted.

  Another figure on horseback stepped into the road. “Give them back, gentlemen.”

  The soldiers snapped to attention. “Lieutenant Munroe, sir! We were just exacting a toll for passage down the king’s road. No harm intended, sir!”

  The command repeated, “Give the gentleman back his wares, corporal. We are here to keep order, not incite the colonists to wrath.”

  Grudgingly, the corporal stepped aside. “My apologies,” he muttered, returning the merchandise with a glowering look.

  “Nay, nay,” Salizar simpered, bowing and refusing the goods. “It’s a gift – to
show I hold no animosity toward good King George. Each must do his best to see there’s peace in the world, sure. The knife and canteen are yours to keep.”

  Meadow’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. Salizar giving away merchandise? To that arrogant, scavenging jackal?

  “Very well,” Lieutenant Munroe agreed, “and thank you. If all were as generous as you, the presence of royal troops would not be required here at all.”

  Meadow almost choked.

  With a slight bow, the officer nudged his horse back into the gloom. The berated corporal sheathed his sword and wheeled his mount, spurring him in the opposite direction. The others remounted and followed. With a tinkling of pots, Aberdeen set the wagon back in motion.

  Out of earshot of the troops, Meadow turned on Salizar. “How could you pander to the British like that? The scoundrel tried to steal from you, or worse! No telling what he would have done if that fellow hadn’t stepped in.”

  “Wynn, my lad, a knife and a canteen and a bit of pride are small insurance for an unscathed journey.”

  “But how can you not hate them?” Meadow raged.

  He turned to her with a calculating look. “There are no profits in taking sides. If you cannot bow when required, you threaten my business and give me cause to bid you farewell. So, will you stay or go?”

  The man was a two-sided coin, she realized with distaste, playing whatever politics served his pocketbook. And his scruples, if he had any, were fashioned of porridge. If it were not so important that she reached Boston…

  “I’ll stay,” she muttered sullenly.

  Chapter 8

  The town was alive with noise and confusion. A number of pine pitch torches lit the green and flickered on the gathering of men roused from their beds. Some clustered in loose groups, broadly demonstrating their disgust for the sins of their sovereign. Others stood patient and silent, the long night of waiting evident in their strained features.

  A crush of men migrated in and out of a well-lit tavern at the edge of the green, seeking heat, refreshment and information. Here and there a woman hovered, casting worried glances at the men and corralling awakened children behind closed doors.