The Color of Freedom

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “Lord Alfred was wise and generous with his tenants. If there was a need, he met it. If there was important work to be done, he rolled up his sleeves and pitched in. And every birth or funeral found Lady Rebecca in attendance.

  “They had a son named Edward. He taught David and me our letters, but I could tell you long tales of the scrapes we got in together,” Amos smiled.

  “Eddie grew into a fine man and inherited his parents’ estate after their deaths. He fell in love with David’s little sister, Rosie, and was not too proud to make an Irish lass the new Lady. I married my Annie that same summer and before long both girls found themselves with child.

  “We visited each other often, and though David never married, he remained as much a part of our fellowship as before. But our happiness was short-lived. A few months later, Eddie’s body was found in a gully five miles from the manor. He had been robbed, beaten and his throat slit.”

  Meadow gasped, and Amos paused to wipe moisture from his eyes.

  “The next day, Rosie disappeared and was also presumed dead. No one was ever charged with the crimes, though everyone suspected Lord Edward’s cousin, Heathcliff Wescott. Because Eddie left no heir, Heathcliff inherited the estate.

  “The combined deaths proved more than David could bear. His grief drove him to madness. He was convinced of Heathcliff’s guilt, as we all were, and though I tried to dissuade him, he rode to the manor to confront him. He was shot dead.”

  “But surely Heathcliff was convicted of the murder?” Meadow demanded.

  “Heathcliff claimed he acted in self-defense. There were no witnesses, and the judge dismissed his case. From that day, none dared challenge Heathcliff. He was free to do as he willed. Within a decade, he had cleared out several villages, including our own.”

  The stomping of feet below interrupted the story. “Amos?” Jonathan boomed. Meadow could hear urgency in the man’s voice.

  Amos stood in alarm. “Is it Abigail?”

  Jonathan’s head popped above the loft floor. “No, no. I must be gone late tonight. Several new ships have arrived in the harbor. Would you keep an eye on my womenfolk while I’m gone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is this about the three generals that came on the Cerberus?” Meadow asked.

  Jonathan’s stare pierced her. “You’ve seen them?”

  She shrugged. “I hear things in the stable. They may be replacing General Gage.”

  “You’re sure of this?”

  “The words of Captain Buckler, sir.”

  “Did you hear their names?”

  “I remember them.”

  Jonathan turned to Amos. “I want the boy to come with me.”

  “He’s just a child, Jonathan. I don’t want him involved in the conflict.”

  Meadow listened to her own words as though they came from another. “But Da, how can I avoid it? I am a part of this. You cannot shelter me.”

  “Jonathan wants you to become a spy. I’ve no wish to place you in danger.”

  “Am I not already in danger? I will do as Jonathan asks.”

  Amos searched long into her eyes and nodded.

  Chapter 14

  Jonathan led Meadow to a tavern close to the Mill Pond. She studied the two-story building from the lane. A sign above the door featured a square and compass – working men’s tools – and a bronze dragon tarnished by years of exposure to New England weather.

  The inside was furnished with the same tables and low-slung ceiling that characterized taverns across the country. A stone fireplace took up most of one wall, and a few customers pushed pints at a corner table.

  Jonathan led her up a stair to a long room filled with seated men who mumbled quietly to each other. Jonathan called them to silence.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce my nephew. He works in a British stable and has become privy to some interesting information.

  “Wynn, I want you to swear secrecy on this Bible. Upon your life, you must not breathe a word of the goings-on inside the Green Dragon. To do so puts us all at risk – the revolution as well.”

  Revolution! Her neck prickled at the word. “I’m no stranger to secrets, Uncle.” She placed her hand on the book.

  “He’s just a boy, Jonathan. How do we know he’ll be truthful?” one man scoffed.

  “Wynn,” Jonathan said. “Tell these good men what you told me in my barn loft tonight.”

  Meadow cleared her throat, glancing at the faces turned expectantly toward her. A tavern girl appeared at the head of the stairs with a round of drinks which she deftly handed around to the men.

  “Ships arrived today with fresh troops,” she began.

  “At least four thousand,” someone called out. “We all seen ‘em.”

  “Just wait, Solomon,” Jonathan implored. “Wynn, go on.”

  “The Cerberus also carried three men named Howe, Burgoyne, and Clinton. They are generals, here to assist, maybe even replace, General Gage.”

  Pandemonium broke out at her words.

  “Now is the time to strike, I tell you!” someone exclaimed. “Our armies sit idly by, bored and restless. They need to see some action before they all pack up and go home. Their number grows smaller every day.”

  “The army is not yet ready,” replied a dissenter. “Only passion for a common cause holds them together.”

  “But our opportunity may slip away if Gage is to be replaced. His hesitancy and uncertainty have been great allies for our cause.”

  “Perhaps ‘tis time for another demonstration such as our tea party?” another voice asked.

  The first man rejoined, “Our little acts of rebellion have done nothing but fill the city with more British. I already have two of the buggers living under my roof. Bloody hollow villains, stealing food meant for my children. If we would be rid of them, we must take greater action. We must fight!”

  “But, James, how can our boys take on the strength of the British regulars?”

  “They fought well enough in Concord and on the road back to Boston. Nearly three hundred British regulars dead or wounded! We suffered only a third as much.”

  “Five score which we could not spare,” someone reminded him.

  “A hard-fought battle, I agree,” James continued, “but time is our enemy. I’m tired of sneaking around the city at night. We must take the fight to the British and drive them from Boston before more arrive!”

  “Wait just a bit longer, my friend,” Jonathan suggested. “Our job is to collect information, not advise the army. We must get word of the new arrivals to Dr. Warren and the Committee of Safety. And Ward should know, as well.”

  Jonathan rose. “We will relay it and meet again in three days.”

  The men began to melt into the night singly or in groups of two, and soon Meadow was left only with Jonathan and two others.

  At Jonathan’s signal, the tavern girl set down pints of flip. Meadow slurped coffee while Jonathan pumped her for additional information. But she had told all she knew. Satisfied, he drafted two letters and sealed them with wax.

  “James, here, will carry news to Dr. Warren and the Committee, but word must also reach General Artemas Ward, Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army. Both men are in Cambridge, but two copies will ensure arrival. Where is Isaac Pickford?”

  “He took sick. His wife wouldn’t let him out tonight.”

  “I need another courier,” Jonathan said. “David, can you carry a letter to Ward?”

  “Sorry, Jonathan. Old man Dochier needs a driver at first light and I’m it.”

  Jonathan looked around the empty room in consternation.

  “I will go, Uncle,” Meadow volunteered. “I am not expected at the stable tomorrow.”

  “I’ve no wish to anger your father, son.”

  “You’re just a boy,” David grumbled.

  “It seems you have no other choice,” Meadow pointed out.

  After a long silence, Jonathan spoke. “There is great danger. If you are caught, you cou
ld be hanged as a traitor and a spy.”

  “I am no stranger to peril,” she argued. “Tell me the surest way.”

  Jonathan gave a quick nod. “Very well.” He handed her a letter. “James will go over Boston Neck. He has friends among the guards at the gate. You must go by water.”

  “I can swim.”

  “Not across the Charles River, you can’t,” Jonathan warned, “unless you have also learned to grow gills.”

  “That I cannot do,” she smiled.

  “Then you will need to paddle to Charleston, cross Charlestown Neck and make your way west and south to Cambridge. But use caution. The Lively lies at anchor, bristling with men who would sooner slit your throat than shake your hand. Muffle your oars and do not tarry.

  “You will find a small skiff in Gree’s Shipyard, lashed to the southern dock. You can procure a horse from…”

  Jonathan continued giving instruction, but Meadow’s attention was turned by the tavern girl who handed her a package wrapped in burlap. Nestled inside she found a small loaf and a chunk of cheese.

  “Go now,” Jonathan finished, “before the tide changes.”

  Meadow departed, slinking through the night to the river’s edge. She scurried among the narrow lanes of the North End, munching on her supper. The way was not far. Soon she spotted the black silhouettes of the shipyard against the lighter darkness of the sky. To her right, the horizon had begun to glow silver, announcing the fast arrival of the moon, and across the river, hundreds of campfires twinkled like fairy dust sprinkled over the hills.

  Meadow found the boat without incident. Dividing her scrap of burlap, she lined each oarlock and drove the vessel among the pilings.

  The water was deep and black at the end of the dock. She could see the lights of the Lively away to the east. Directly ahead of her, the lights of Charlestown reflected on the water. Situating herself in the middle of the boat, she plotted a straight course and took hold of the unfamiliar oars.

  With her back to the direction she must go, she took several tentative strokes, careful to keep the oars low so no water would splash. The task proved much harder than she anticipated. When she turned again to judge her direction, the bow had turned far to port.

  She corrected her course, but again and again she found she could not hold her line. The boat swerved and veered with her unpracticed strokes, thwarting her efforts as though possessing loyalties of its own. Though the way was not far, she knew at this rate she’d measure twice the distance.

  Frustrated, with mounting fatigue, she became aware of a greater danger. While she’d been preoccupied, the Lively had floated much closer.

  She took a sharper bearing, throwing her weight into each pull of the oars. The rag dropped from one of the pivots so each draw creaked in the stillness. Sweat dripped into her eyes, and her breath came in ragged gasps, but she could not outrun the warship. It loomed larger and larger off her starboard side.

  Pausing to catch her breath, Meadow realized the ship was not drifting. She was! She had underestimated the current of the Charles, and now the river had her in its grip, pushing her right into the mighty man-of-war.

  She passed under the bow, so near she could touch the slimy, wooden side and hear the guard running on the deck above.

  “Aye, I heard it. Sounded close.”

  “Yankee devil, probably, on some errand of mischief.”

  She steadied her boat against the ship’s side and palmed her way toward the stern, hopping she was invisible beneath the curve of the beams.

  “The moon’s coming up. Can you see anything?”

  “Nothing. Maybe the sound carried from shore.”

  “No. Something’s out there.”

  She crept on with bated breath, listening for movement overhead. Hearing nothing further, she pushed off the stern, letting the silent current take her.

  The point of the Charlestown peninsula had already passed behind her, and now its eastern shore was drifting away as well. She had to row or she’d beach on the island beyond. Cramming her hat into the creaky oarlock and praying she’d remain undetected, she eased out of the current and zigzagged toward land.

  The warship rested at ease, and slowly the shoreline crept closer as she pulled out of the current. When only fifty yards separated her from the beach, Meadow allowed herself to relax.

  Unexpectedly, a sharp splash sounded in the water beside her, followed by the rolling retort of a musket. She’d been spotted!

  Another bullet slashed the water as she slipped into the murky river, gripping the letter in her teeth and thankful for breeches instead of heavy skirts.

  Though the season had grown warm, the water remembered the chill of winter. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and she clamped her lips together for fear of dropping the communication. Fingers and toes lost all feeling.

  The rowboat drifted away behind her as she struck out for land. At last gravel crunched beneath her feet. She crawled ashore and lay shivering on the sand.

  The moon had risen above the sea and lit the world with a soft radiance. Waves lapped softly on her right. A myriad of insects droned around her. Somewhere close by a bullfrog croaked.

  Meadow knew she needed to get her blood flowing again. She still had far to travel. What was it Jonathan had said about a horse? She chastised herself for not paying better attention.

  Struggling to her feet, she jogged along the hard-packed sand and darted through town – a small one compared to Boston. On to Charlestown Neck and down the hilly road beyond, she alternately jogged and walked though dark, unfamiliar terrain until she became so weary even the stitch in her side failed to register.

  After hours of hard travel, she approached the Cambridge common where a few campfires still glowed.

  “Who’s there?” a voice called.

  “Wynn McKenzie, sir, with communication from Boston for General Ward.”

  She held up the letter and a young man stepped out of the shadows. “I’ll take it.”

  “If you please, sir, I was directed to deliver it to your commander.”

  “As you wish. I’ll take you to him.”

  Meadow followed the young sentry to a modest house at the edge of the green. After knocking, she was admitted and stood awaiting the general.

  A middle-aged man appeared, corpulent, haggard, and fully dressed. In fact, he looked as though he had not slept since the battle at Concord. Nor did he look well. Lines of pain and fatigue pinched his features.

  “A letter from Boston for General Artemas Ward, sir,” she stated.

  “I am he.”

  Meadow blinked and stared hard at the man. This was the commander of the Army of Massachusetts?

  He took the letter and read it briefly, a flicker of dismay shadowing his eyes. “Yes, yes,” he mumbled. “Same as the other.”

  James must have arrived hours ago.

  “Thank you, soldier,” he dismissed her. “Go get some rest.”

  A dog escaped the house as Meadow was let out. She watched it stalk off, hackles raised threateningly, after another mongrel sniffing around the common. The clamor of the fight prompted several curses, thrown from behind canvas walls, before the first animal trotted behind the house to lick its wounds.

  Exhausted and shivering, Meadow envied the dog its bed. She staggered through the sleeping camp looking for a place to rest and finally fell beside a fire pit that still contained live embers. With her last bit of strength, she wrapped herself in a discarded blanket.

  ~

  “Move on, there,”

  Meadow blinked awake. She was startled to see a woman with a baby on her hip stirring the ashes in the grayness of dawn. She knew many families had left their homes to reside with their men, but her surprise was no less to see one of these camp followers.

  “I said move on.” The woman gave her a poke with a stick.

  Meadow rolled from her blanket.

  A few of the soldiers had also awakened. Meadow hardly recognized the proud men who had amassed
against the British only six weeks ago. These fellows were lean and filthy, with matted hair and ragged beards. Though she sensed the same stubbornness of will she had witnessed on Lexington Green, it was waning. The men were idle. Hollow-eyed. Waiting.

  The half-light revealed shelters that could hardly be classified as tents. They were dump heaps – cobbled together boards, sailcloth, stone, turf, brush, or whatever else the men had found at hand. And the stench! The soldiers lived like rats.

  Meadow wandered among the hovels, searching for a friendly face and a fire where she could warm her damp clothing and perhaps satisfy the rumble in her stomach. She was beginning to dismay of the task when a voice called softly behind her, “Hello, pretty lady!”

  She stiffened. Had someone seen through her disguise? She turned warily and her breath caught in her throat. Arms wide, she flung herself at the soldier. “Daniel!”

  The groom squeezed her affectionately, grinning down at her. “I’m so happy to see you! I would kiss you if you weren’t still dressed as a boy.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit!” she laughed.

  “I hope not.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to give the British a rousing send-off back to England, of course.”

  He was here to fight, she realized. The smile withered on her face.

  He tipped her chin up. “Not so glum! Say, did you swim through a swamp?”

  She sighed, “The river.”

  “You swam the Charles!?”

  She shrugged, too tired to explain.

  “Come,” he said, leading her away. “I’ll build a hot fire and serve you a meal for a change. It won’t be much, but it will fill your belly.”

  Daniel offered her a new blanket, which she gladly accepted, and he soon had a cheerful blaze burning where only gray ashes had sat before. But before he turned around, Meadow had fallen asleep.

  When she opened her eyes the sun was beating straight down. The air had grown stifling and muggy, though a crude shade had been erected above her. She had long since cast the blanket aside in her sleep, and she now wished her clothing was still cool and damp.

  Looking about, she saw little activity. Men sat in the shade of their dwellings, or under trees, or wandered listlessly about. Some whittled at pieces of wood while others slept or amused themselves with games made of rocks and sticks and buttons.