The Color of Freedom

"You, girl, bring me a chicken!"

The command was flung at Meadow from across the chaos of the kitchen where Esther, the fat, sweating cook, directed preparations for the evening banquet. Recalling the impact of the woman's heavy fists, Meadow dropped her paring knife and scurried to obey. She returned within minutes, a hen tucked triumphantly under one arm.

As she stood in the doorway brushing at a tendril of auburn hair that escaped her mobcap during the chase, a pair of serving maids working nearby peeked at her and exchanged amused glances. Both were overcome with a sudden fit of coughing. One turned quickly away while the other covered her face with the hem of her apron.

The butler strode past with freshly polished silver. His eyebrows lifted at the sight of the hen. One corner of his mouth began to quiver, and his step quickened.

Meadow glanced uncertainly from the maids to the butler's shaking backside. Nothing at all had been said about
killing
the chicken, but as quiet snickers spread throughout the room, she began to suspect her mistake.

A few more servants looked up with grinning faces then someone whooped out loud, "Esther, there's your chicken!"

Just then, the bird gave a loud squawk, and a wave of laughter rumbled through the cluttered room. The cook turned to look, those powerful fists coming to rest on her hips, and Meadow felt heat steal up the collar of her dress. At the same moment, a servant with an armload of firewood bumped in the door behind her, sending the hen fluttering over the gray flagstone floor - straight for the cook.

Esther made one desperate, futile lunge. "Catch that bird!"

The room exploded as a dozen merry servants took up the chase like a pack of hounds after a fox. The panicked chicken ducked under a table and shot past another pair of arms, squawking to loosen the shingles. Somebody - Meadow thought it was the butler - missed the hen and overturned a bowl of salad greens which were followed closely by a sack of flour.

A white, dusty haze enveloped the room. The butler swore, Esther bellowed, and breathless serving girls scampered through the fog enjoying themselves immensely. Meadow had never seen the kitchen in such disarray.

Suddenly, the boney hand of the head mistress swooped down and grasped the chicken by the neck, cutting it off mid-squawk. Her presence squelched all hilarity like mud thrown on a flame.

Widow Pym thrust the hen at Meadow, her eyes barely containing her contempt. "In two hours, twenty-seven dinner guests will be driving up to Lord Dennison's front door. If this hen isn't dead in five minutes, I vow to heaven, you are going to be!"

Meadow took the bird and skulked from the now-silent room.

But she paused on the doorstep just outside the kitchen. How did one kill a chicken? She had plucked them, cooked them and served them, but someone else always dispatched them. Stumbling toward the chopping block, the February air quickly cooled her shame.

She cradled the hen in one hand and picked up the hatchet with the other. She couldn't hope to keep all her fingers if she chopped with only one hand. But if she put the hen down, she'd have to start the chase all over again. She wasted most of her five minutes looking from one hand to the other. As she wavered, an early guest rode his mount into the stable.

The guest reappeared on foot. He was a young man with pleasant features and long, brown hair tied in a queue. Meadow hoped he'd move along and leave her to her task, but he paused and stood a moment watching her.

"Having some trouble?" His eyes crinkled with amusement.

Meadow bit her lip, mortified.

The man took the chicken from her hand. Pulling a length of string from his pocket, he looped it about the bird's head. "This can be a bit tricky, but if you'll just hold these..."

He handed her the ends and stretched the unfortunate bird across the block. Meadow closed her eyes and in a moment the job was done.

"Thank you," she whispered, ducking her head.

"No, thank you. Roasted chicken is my favorite dish." With a smile, the young man disappeared around the front of the manor house.

∗ ∗ ∗

Several hours later, Meadow worked to clear away soiled dishes, piling them high on a silver tray. Conversations spun around her like the wintry drafts that blew down the chimney and swirled about the corners of the dining room. Despite the cold, Meadow's forehead glistened with dew drops of perspiration.

"I'm honored that you could spend your leave under my roof, Nephew."
Hathbane
Denison sat at the head of the table clad in a green velvet waistcoat that stretched over the bulge of his stomach and fastened with a parade of gold buttons. On his head perched an outlandish wig, and his cheeks were pinked with rouge.

Meadow grimaced. The finery did little to alter her master's size or his temper, which both resembled those of a grizzly bear.

"I trust you'll find
Wellshire
more restful than Boston. Tell us, what
is
the state of affairs in the rebellious city?"

A young man leaned forward to answer, dressed in the scarlet uniform of a British officer. "Dreadful, I'm afraid, Uncle
Hathbane
. The colonists are insolent and disrespectful to my men, and they challenge every new regulation. They simply refuse to be governed."

"Surely the blockade of their harbor will stem the rebellion."

All eyes shifted to the new speaker, a thin man with lips that sagged like old lettuce. "They will think twice when their bellies grow hollow and their children beg for bread. King George was right to lay down the law, don't you agree, Hampton?"

Hampton, who looked remarkably like a bulldog, nodded gravely, his jowls quivering among the layers of silk and lace tied beneath them. "I agree completely, Mr. Grimes. He'd be wise to treat New York in the same way. And Philadelphia as well. The cities are filled with sedition."

"Hear! Hear!" Grimes exclaimed, slapping a boney hand down on the table.

Lord Dennison sneered, "Gentlemen, the king has little to fear from these colonists. They are nothing but undisciplined, uneducated peasants. Their rebellion simply proves their need for firm leadership."

Meadow had little interest in politics and very little faith that rebel activities in the far off cities would produce anything but trouble for all the colonies. England was simply too strong. The British could do whatever they liked. That had been proven to her at a very young age.

"I think the colonists have done a fine job governing themselves while London has been busy elsewhere."

Meadow stole a peek at the speaker. He was the young guest from the hen yard.

"After all, most of them come from solid English stock. They're only airing their grievances. Once our differences are settled, I believe the colonists will become proper British subjects once again."

"Blast it all, Dobbs!"
Hathbane
roared. "'Airing their grievances?' Is that what you call their treachery? Their boycotts and bonfires and riots? Flaming Hades, man, they dumped a whole shipload of tea into the harbor!"

"They only want what they've always had," Dobbs explained, "and fair representation before the king in the event of further legislation." "You mean they want to continue to pay no taxes," growled
Hathbane
.

A middle-aged woman leaned forward, rustling a heavy damask gown. "Really," she voiced, "politics at the dinner table is so unbecoming. Might I request more pleasant conversation?"

The men shifted uncomfortably and nodded their polite agreement.

She rewarded them with a haughty smile. Turning to Lord Dennison she added, "Surely you understand if you would take a wife she would never allow this sort of disgrace to befall your table. Now my daughter, Veronica, just turned seventeen-" Her husband broke in, "Don't badger the man, Martha!"

During the awkward lull, Meadow slipped between Dobbs and Hampton, removing their soup bowls in preparation for the next course. She stretched across the table to reach for an empty platter but extended herself too far. The dish slipped from her fingers with a clatter, a small chip appearing about the edge.

"Clumsy girl!"
Hathbane
roared, his massive bulk raising several seats away. A score of disapproving eyes whisked to her slight frame. "Are you not aware this china has been in my family for five generations?"

Meadow felt her face burn a deeper scarlet, and she could feel the daggers of reproach being shot across the room at her from the harsh head mistress. Flustered, she grabbed at more dishes, her shaking fingers rattling them alarmingly.

Dobbs reached out to steady the pile and offered Meadow an encouraging smile.

Lord Dennison's eyebrows pulled together to form a single, hard line across his forehead. She knew he refrained from striking her only because his guests looked on, but his fury raged just beneath the surface.

"Have you got cloth for ears? Those dishes are irreplaceable. Exercise some care or your thick fingers will find themselves hoeing tobacco in my fields come spring."

The room grew uncomfortably still. Blinking back tears, Meadow made a show of gathering the last of the dishes and stacked them carefully on her tray. Then with a heave, she escaped backward through the swinging door at the rear of the room, her skirt swishing dust from the floorboards.

The kitchen stank of wood smoke and the sweat of too many bodies. Elbowing through servant girls who smirked as she passed, Meadow scuffed over the flagstones and dropped her burden on a low trestle table.

"Pompous old fool!" she muttered between teeth clenched so tightly they made her jaw ache.

"What was that, dear?" A frail old woman was bent over a tub of soiled dishes. "Who fought a duel?"

Meadow took a deep breath and somehow mustered a steady tone. "Not a duel, Sarah," she said loudly. "
Fuel
. I think the wood box needs replenishing. I'll be right back."

"Jack? Nay, lass, I haven't seen him. Probably behind the woodshed with a flask of that devil's brew," the old woman croaked, swiping at a greasy platter. "Idle, good-for-nothing-"

Meadow hurried out of the kitchen before the old woman finished her tirade against the chauffeur, dead these past three years. Behind her, the setting sun set her hair ablaze.

The yard lay encased in the hard grip of winter. Hidden under a blanket of snow, jagged ruts clutched at her feet as she rushed across the yard to the woodshed. She leaned weakly against the plank wall.

How she hated
Hathbane
Dennison! Wealthy, landed, and unforgivably arrogant, he embodied every quality she despised in the British gentry. Worst of all, his position gave him authority to do whatever he pleased. He was a tyrant, and she longed to leave his estate forever.

But that day would have to wait. She still owed him seven more years of her life.

∗ ∗ ∗

Fourteen years earlier, Meadow Wynn McKenzie entered the world on the same night her mother left it. Her father, Amos, a poor Irish tenant farmer, was left with the bewildering task of raising his only child alone. He fashioned a harness of sorts to carry the infant as he worked. Before long, the toddler tripped along behind him, chattering like a magpie and encouraging life in the farmer just as he coaxed it from the soil.

Amos doted on the child, who grew to be as fair, slender and inquisitive as he was craggy, brawny and mundane. The villagers shrugged their shoulders at unlikely pair, but there was no doubt of the affection they shared.