The Color of Freedom (11 page)

Meadow listened with growing incredulity. The all-powerful English in retreat before a ragtag band of colonists?

John gave a wan smile. "I believe the British share your surprise. We have proven we can challenge the armies of the king, but in the days ahead we will need all the encouragement we can muster from this knowledge."

He paused, and his next words were laced with strain. "The British will regroup. War has begun."

John stood to rejoin his comrades, but he turned back with a warning. "
Salizar
, stay off the road. The British are burning and looting and putting to death any they catch - even women and children."

Meadow and
Salizar
returned to their rig where Aberdeen was enjoying his time off duty, snatching lazily at wispy grasses. Taking John's words of caution to heart, they backtracked a mile from the junction. Toward evening,
Salizar's
chin grew weighted and settled comfortably on his chest, but Meadow sat rigid, listening to the distant crack of gunshots.

The yawning sun slipped behind the horizon and evening stars began to sprinkle the purple sky. The air grew cold, and the sounds of battle retreated far to the east, marking the passage of the last company of British.

Meadow roused
Salizar
.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "The troops will reach Boston before us. Our opportunity is lost."

Salizar
stretched and grasped the reins. "Perhaps not," he smiled and drove the wagon back to the Boston Road.

The debris of war littered the countryside. Hot, smoking hulks of buildings stood at intervals like glowing skeletons in the gloom. Some still burned, igniting trees and defying the shadowy figures that sought to stamp out their angry, spreading sparks. The few houses that had escaped the inferno shone brightly from every window, crammed to the eaves with family and neighbors waiting for word or mourning their dead.

Rubbish littered the yards and spilled into the roadway to twine in the spokes of the wagon. Knapsacks lay scattered about, discarded by weary soldiers. At the side of the road lay a dead dog, slashed open with the point of a bayonet, and here and there the body of a soldier or a colonist lay in a grotesque heap, not yet recovered for burial.

Meadow rode as one in a dream. If she had not witnessed so much death already, she would have wept aloud, but her emotions had passed the point of saturation. Instead, only sad regret dampened her face and weighted her shoulders.

Suddenly, a ragged band of rebels leaped out of the darkness with raised muskets. "We need your wagon," one demanded. "Got some dead and wounded that need transport."

"Certainly,"
Salizar
agreed with an ingratiating smile. "Don't shoot. I'm an American myself and glad to be of service."

One man held them at gunpoint as two others were helped unsteadily into the back of the wagon. A third was hoisted up by his fellows and lay still.

The guard prodded
Salizar
with his gun. "Drive us to the next intact building you can find."

Ten minutes later, lights gleamed brightly from the windows of a roadside tavern.

"I know this place," one of the men stated. "Pull in here."

The door of the pub opened as they drove near, spilling light onto their passengers. The fighters looked pinched and strained. Only white eyes showed in their blackened faces. One of their wounded had slumped over unconscious and the other rattled painfully with every sucking breath, but it was the sight of the man stretched stiffly across the tarp that jolted Meadow to a reaction.

"John!" she cried, flinging herself at the prostrate man.

The solemn visage of John Blackburn blurred before her, relaxed in his final sleep. In shock, she reached out to touch the hand that had once clasped hers so heartily. It now lay waxy and cold.

"He's gone, boy," one of the men said regretfully. "Took a musket ball clean through the heart."

She bowed her head, tears splashing into the curly black hair, and thought of Patience. Left alone to run a farm and raise five children, the woman would be tested to her limits. Meadow recalled her resolute faith and her quiet strength and hoped fervently that both would be enough to sustain her.

"He was a good man,"
Salizar
whispered, wiping his eyes. She knew John was one man he had truly admired.

Meadow crossed herself and said a brief prayer for her friend as the men carried him inside the tavern. Silently,
Salizar
pressed on. "There's nothing we can do here, Wynn."

Soon they began to overtake the bedraggled British troops. Weakened soldiers trailed behind their stronger comrades, weary with pursuit, lack of sleep, heavy equipment, wounds and nearly forty miles of marching. Once again the wagon was commandeered at gunpoint and the
tarpaulined
bed piled high with wounded.

Meadow watched
Salizar
bite his lip in anger as a clumsy fellow dislodged a barrel of flour, knocking it to the road in a ghostly explosion. She could just imagine the figures dancing in his brain as he added up his losses.

She walked at Aberdeen's bridle, encouraging the beast with his frightfully heavy load. He plodded on slowly but surely, and the night grew late before one of their hijackers commanded, "Bring us across Charlestown Neck."

Salizar
deposited the wounded at the dock in Charlestown where the navy had already begun shipping soldiers and casualties back across the Charles River into Boston. On the mainland behind them, Meadow could see the flames of a hundred campfires glaring like watchful eyes. The hordes of minutemen had settled into the surrounding hills to wait like a patient lion, hemming the British in Boston Harbor.

Salizar
backtracked and guided the weary horse down the Boston road, past the menacing eyes and around the spreading mouth of the river. Twice they were accosted by armed colonists but
Salizar
uncovered his supplies, claiming an invitation to the hungry city by Sam Adams himself, and both times they were let past. At last, far into the night, they arrived at the fortifications that spanned Boston Neck.

Several articles had been left in the wagon following the removal of the wounded British. "Wynn, lad,"
Salizar
said as they approached the gate, "scatter those soldier things around and go lie under the canvas with your bare feet sticking out."

Meadow was so frightened that she obeyed without question.

At the gate, confusion reigned. Rumors of the slaughter on the road had preceded them, and already unfounded tales of heroics and atrocities grew larger than the battleships moored in the harbor.

A harried corporal approached the wagon, "
Wot
you got
b'neath
the tarp?"

"Dead,"
Salizar
boldly lied.

The officer's eyes widened at the size of the load. "Blimey! Stacked up like cordwood, they are! British or American?"

"Both."

He opened the gate and
Salizar
drove over the causeway.

Others took one look at the dead feet and waved them on.

At the entrance to the city, a sentry pointed vaguely north. "Over there. Bring them to the Common."

Salizar
steered Aberdeen down Orange Street. "You can come out now," he called back to Meadow after a hundred yards.

He veered sharply east and followed a waterfront thick with soldiers and spectators alike. No one in the town slept, it seemed. Citizens huddled in tight groups with excited mumblings that rose and fell like the waves in the harbor.

Meadow saw one old man wearing a long night shirt with bare feet shoved hastily into his shoes, but most folks had never bothered to retire for the evening. Men, women and children, eager for an end to the occupation, prowled about like bobcats in the gloom, intent on information.

"Are you come from outside?" someone called up to them.

"Aye. We mixed with the battle,"
Salizar
declared importantly.

"Have you seen the militia? They are not defeated?"

Meadow shook her head. "Not yet. They've given a good account of themselves, but now they rest across the water."

"We've seen their fires."

Others called up questions about particular men, but they had no answers for the anxious friends. Instead,
Salizar
began passing around an address he had scrawled on a scrap of paper.

"We bring supplies," he announced. "Bacon, flour, sugar, salt. Bring hard currency. I'll accept no paper or bartered goods."

The crowd scattered in murmured excitement.
Salizar
left the waterfront and wound through the city. He turned onto a quiet street with tidy yards and Georgian houses that stood closely side by side. The neighborhood appeared tranquil and inviting after the chaos they had left behind.

Salizar
guided the horse to a carriage house behind a red-bricked house. "Jump down and open that door, lad," he instructed.

Meadow obeyed and the man drove inside. Whistling contentedly to himself,
Salizar
climbed down and left the building.

Meadow unhitched Aberdeen and led the deserving beast to a wide, straw-strewn stall. Helping herself to feed and water, she filled his trough and collapsed beneath a blanket in the warm, sweet hay.

Meadow awoke with a start, thrashing out the panic of a dream. Her heart thudded violently and straw stuck to her clammy skin. Across the stall, Aberdeen glanced at her serenely as if to ask what the problem might be.

She heaved a shaky breath and flopped back in the straw, but a memory more dreadful than fantasy gripped her with icy persistency. John Blackburn lay dead in a tavern outside of Boston and Patience could not even know until tomorrow.

Meadow huddled miserably in the morning gloom. How many others shared their story? How many children lost a father? A brother? How many mothers would never hug their son again? The night's violence had torn a rift in the fabric of the British Empire that would forever leave an ugly scar.

A murmur of voices touched Meadow's ears, and the dim light of a lantern glowed above the stall. Rising, she saw a group gathered about the curious wagon, exclaiming over its treasures.

Salizar
spotted her and sauntered over with a beaming smile. "Ah, you finally woke up. Such a night we've had, eh? We couldn't have planned it better if we tried! Imagine walking right into the city without so much as a 'by your leave!'"

Meadow's stomach rolled as he jingled a pouch heavy with coins.

"While you slept, already I've sold half my wares. The people of Boston are in great need. We have done well to bring them food."

And charge them four times the price, she wanted to add, but she held her tongue. The man was a hyena preying on the unfortunate, picking at the bones of a carcass. She could not wait to be shed of him.

"We've reached the sea," she stated, climbing over the wall of the stall. "Here I will leave your employ."

Salizar
paused, staring at her open-mouthed. "But the harbor is blocked. You cannot sail from Boston."

"I never said I wished to sail. You only assumed it."

"Then why would a young man travel to the coast?"

She pushed through the customers and fished for her coat and bag in the wagon bed. "My reasons are my own."

He shrugged. "This shipment promises to sell out by noon. If you change your mind, I'll be leaving Boston in the evening before the British regroup. I've no wish to become trapped here like this ragged lot." He jerked his head at his customers.

"You won't see me." She tossed the bag over her shoulder. "Take care of Aberdeen. He's a good horse."

"Aye, that he is," he said staring after her in dismay. "That he is."

∗ ∗ ∗

The brightness of morning stung Meadow's eyes. She felt lighthearted and free, like a yearling colt loosed from its traces. At long last she had reached Boston, and her father was within walking distance! But having no idea where he lived, she began wandering at random.

The morning throbbed with the sounds of a city renewing itself. Children shouted to one another, pleased with their unexpected holiday. Cobblestones rang with the beat of iron horseshoes. A sulky milk cow lowed in protest as a Negro girl tugged its lead, coaxing it to pasture on the common green; its bell clanked with each step. Women with baskets on their arms hustled to market, hopeful to find flour or sugar for the day's needs.

Meadow threaded her way past the docks. Though most commerce had dried up with the blockade, some shops remained open. She paused to avoid a team of Belgians pulling a dray loaded with brick and wood. Somewhere, the thin sound of a tin horn wavered, marking a fisherman's fortune despite the battleships moored in the harbor.

She traveled down a row of wood-framed houses, their upper stories hanging out above the road like a line of old women leaning over a fence. Occasionally, she passed a grand estate nestled safely within vast gardens. These she bypassed quickly, disturbed by reminders of
Wellshire
.