Chapter 31

"They's back," Moses said. "Them ole men tha' was here, in d'parlor, Miss Anne."

Anne took a deep breath, raked back her loose hair with her fingers, retied her wide ribbon, and slid open the door. The men stood, looking very unhappy, hats in their hands, all three in dark serge kneepants and dark hose. She closed the door and waited, trying to keep calm, hands clasped behind her.

"We heard," said the oldest as the other two resumed their chairs, "that you have come into some money, a good deal of money."

Anne nodded, wondering who talked. "My late father's business, privateering." Perhaps the boatman had overheard something. Maybe he went to a tavern.

"And we would like to ask you again to contribute to the cause, to fight the rebellion, this foul uprising as we are sure your father would have done." His hand shook, and he blinked several times as he licked his purple lips.

"The king is my king, Mr. Selby," she said quietly, picking her words with care. "But it's wrong, this war, this killing." She paused, gathered her thoughts and looked at the unsmiling men. "I am aware, well, I am sure, evil things were done, are still being done on both sides. But, sir, those who are against him have their reasons."

She looked from man to man again and saw only anger as she thought of Billy's lost arm. "Good men, friends of mine, have fought for independency, fought and died, been wounded." She took a deep breath and looked out the window, folding her arms under her breasts. "Our king has hired foreigners to fight us. Taxed people, well, you know the arguments." She swallowed, turned to face them and cleared her throat, aware of her jumbled words. Equivocator. She almost said it aloud and blushed. Pussyfoot, yes, that's better.

"This evil enterprise, this foul independency is ungodly, young woman, unwarranted," said the old man, slapping his hat against his leg. "They will be damned, all of them. And we need your help."

"I am sorry, sir, but I think, I'm not at all sure, but I think they, I mean some people, ordinary people, men I know, they have good cause. Surely parliament's taxes, Lord North." Anne had never formulated that idea before and it almost surprised her.

"Good cause! Good cause!" cried one of the other men, leaping to his feet. "Blasphemy, woman! Your ancestors, your father, he would be ashamed of you!" His face was very red.

"I think you'd better leave, gentlemen," she said quietly, sliding open the parlor door. "I will not give you any money. This war is wrong, killing each other, using foreigners, Marylanders fighting each other. Just wrong."

"They must be punished, those, those damnable, pardon miss, those foul rebels," said the third man, a member of the large and fractured Sinclair family, a rather distant cousin of her sister's husband. "That Washington, all of them, that cursed Tilghman, our foul neighbor Yeates, and Cadwalder too, hanged, drawn and quartered. And you are putting yourself in the same boat, young woman, putting yourself in danger, great danger." He waved his forefinger at her, furious.

"Please," said Anne clearly, going to the front door and holding it open as Moses came to stand behind her, his face impassive.

After two men had clamped on their hats and stalked out, the oldest stopped, looked down at her and said, "I am very, very disappointed, young woman, saddened. I knew your father. He would not have done this." He bowed and left. Moses closed the door.

Anne sat before the cold fireplace, leaned back in the settle and closed her eyes. I am not sure any more. So many people, good people, are rebels. Billy and Philip, both of them, and the men who armed our ships. So many men risking their lives, even dying. For what? Ideals? Liberty, is that it? I just don't understand. Aren't we all free? Don't we have free will?

She rubbed her eyes. Now these men, these old men. They're full of hate. They might cause trouble, burn me out. If I put a red ribbon on my door, will that protect me? Wait, now they're wearing white cockades. It's too confusing.

She stretched her long legs and ran both hands through her cropped hair, pulled it free of the ribbon and let it hang in front of her shoulders, a tangle of auburn waves. She lifted one long strand and examined it. It used to be so simple, flirting with André, playing games with Billy, teasing my sister. Now look. I've lost him. He's married, gone, with two babies. She sighed, closed her eyes and ground her teeth.

Someone was banging on the front door and Anne stood as Moses opened it. In strode one of her visitors, the youngest of the three. He looked about, saw the red-headed woman and stalked toward her, fist raised, snorting with fury.

"Bitch," Macalister Sinclair cried, his face scarlet as Anne stood quickly. "They're too polite to tell you. I'm not. You will be very sorry you did this, you miserable, miserly jade, very sorry indeed. Damn you, all of you who equivocate. Millstones, that's what you are. Millstones! You'll rot in hell."

"Moses," she asked, frightened by his loud ire, "please show the gentleman to the door."

Furious, Sinclair sprayed spittle at her as he cried, "We will not forget this, woman. You'll see! When this foul rebellion is over, you'll pay!" He turned and strode out. "Damn you to hell," he cried as he left, slamming the door closed and making the brass knocker bounce.

Anne went to the kitchen and drank some water, happy with the clear taste. She found her shawl, saddled her riding horse and went into town, thinking all the way, mulling her choices, worried but more angry than afraid, posting now and then.

Philip was alone at the office so she sat down beside him on his bench, trying to stay calm. "Do you own a gun, a weapon?"

"An old flintlock; be afraid to fire it. It's what I used to drill with. Probably hasn't been cleaned for a generation." He leaned back and admired her tightly cinched body. He longed to lay his head between her high breasts, to crush her soft lips, to have her. "My squad now has muskets, Towers." He saw that she was red-faced. "They keep them locked up, in the armory."

"Can you get me one, perhaps a shotgun? No, maybe a pistol would be better. Can you find me a pistol and teach me how to use it?"

He nodded. "Probably. What's wrong?"

She told him of the three men and their threats. "They scared me; that's the truth. You could have heard my heart thumping I'm sure. One yelled and cursed, made threats, called me names."

"I've just been reading about remonstrances, recognizance and court orders. There might be something the local magistrate can do. Takes time. Depends on the threat, on their actions. Let's go visit the smith. You've met him haven't you? So far, it's just talk, isn't it?"

Wordlessly, they walked down the dusty street and found the blacksmith at his forge, beating the end of a red-hot rod on his huge anvil, flattening it into shape as fat sparks flew. He stuck it back into the coals and turned, smiling at Anne and wiping his hands on his heavy apron.

"You have guns for sale sometimes, right?" Philip asked.

The big man nodded, looking the young woman up and down shamelessly and smiling widely. "Girl," he said, "you done cut off your hair. Hell of a thing to do. Disgraceful." He chuckled, a rumble. "Shame on you."

She laughed. "Not all of it, only half. I need a weapon."

"Not surprised, woman as pretty as you might need a cannon. I've got a small pistol and a couple of old bird guns right now. Took 'em in trade."

"Can I see them?" Anne asked, still a bit red-faced. Flattery always bothered her. She recalled her time in Philadelphia and dozens of flatterers, experts at the art.

From his living quarters the man produced two large-bore shotguns of ancient pattern, both flintlocks and both showing decent care, one with a flared muzzle, and a walnut box about a foot square and four inches deep. He handed Anne the box and leaned the long guns on his anvil. "That there's a good one, very fancy but well made for all that. Compact and lovely, like you."

Anne ignored the praise, opened the box and found a stub-nosed, beautifully engraved, gold chased pistol, some tools, a row of gleaming lead balls that looked to be the size of a shooter in a game of ring taw, some cloth squares, a small powder flask decorated with filigree and a double bullet mold, all cased in red velvet.