The Color of Freedom (17 page)

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.

"Good morning, sleepy head." Daniel sat down beside her and offered a carved wooden bowl containing hard biscuits and gruel.

"Daniel, what's going on?" she asked, accepting the meal. "Don't the men have anything to do? Don't they march, or cut firewood, or dig latrines or - or anything?"

The boy's eyes sparkled. "When did you become such a soldier? I sent you away a frightened child and you've returned to command the army!"

"And perhaps he could run it better."

Meadow turned to find a young black man approaching. The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen, but he carried himself like a man and his dark face bore wisdom beyond his years.

"This sorry piece of work is my tent mate, Matthew Parish," Daniel said slugging his friend good-naturedly as he sat down.

The boy's face broke into a youthful grin. "Sorry, is it? Were it not for my generosity and my carpentry skills, you'd still be sleeping in the rain."

Daniel laughed. "Matthew, this is my old friend from home, Mea-"

"McKenzie," Meadow broke in. "Wynn McKenzie." The task of juggling all her identities was growing cumbersome.

"Well, Wynn," Matthew said reaching out a hand, "any friend of Daniel's I'd be pleased to count as one of my own."

"Likewise," Wynn replied and accepted the handshake.

Daniel looked thoughtfully from one to the other. "You know, you two have much in common."

"What do you mean?" Meadow frowned. "I've never been a slave."

"Neither have I," Matthew told her. "My parents bought their liberty. I was born as free as you."

"More so," Daniel asserted. "Wynn's family were tenant farmers in Ireland. Free in the eyes of the law. In reality, bound by poverty to the land they rented."

"But we owned ourselves."

Daniel nodded, "Until you reached America as bound servants."

Matthew's eyes blazed. "Then you must hold freedom as dearly as I do."

She nodded. "And yet I fear it."

Matthew's gaze softened with understanding. "It terrifies me, as well. I fear my faith in America will return empty; that my sacrifice will be in vain; that even in freedom I will be denied the dignity and worth inherent to all men."

"But only applied to white Protestants," Meadow finished. "Have you come to fight?"

"I have. I fight for a freedom much deeper and a future much longer than others can even imagine."

Meadow felt he understood a part of her soul that she hadn't even known how to voice.

Daniel gestured broadly, "These men are now fifteen or twenty thousand strong. They are farmers, doctors and lawyers, merchants and tradesmen. They have no training, little food and poor leadership."

"Then why do they stay?" she asked.

"Hope," Matthew answered.

"Our forces are divided," Daniel continued. "Some come from here and answer only to this man. Others come from there, deaf to all orders but their own. The officers waggle about, flaunting inflated titles and bickering like barnyard geese. Ward is beside himself trying to organize such a rabble.

"One good leader could turn this ragtag bunch of rebels into an army to be reckoned with. But the men grow weary of this long, idle waiting, and many have returned to their homes. We must act soon! We must take the fight to the British or the army of Massachusetts will cease to exist."

Matthew grinned and patted Daniel on the shoulder. "I've heard this sermon before. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two to catch up."

Meadow watched the proud set of the boy's back as he walked away.

"Ships carrying more troops and officers have just arrived in the harbor," she offered. "I delivered the information myself."

"So that's why you are here. I'm glad to see you made it to Boston. Did you find your father?"

"Yes, thanks to your necklace. I would give it back, but it's in the city."

"Keep it safe for me."

"I will, if you promise to keep yourself safe."

"Meadow, you know I cannot promise that. Sometimes lives are required to effect change."

"And you would give yours up?"

"I would. A nation free of tyranny is a priceless thing. Imagine a place where no nine-year-old child is ever forced to watch her home burn before being cast from her land to starve. You understand
that
, don't you?"