Chapter 39

Someone banging the big, brass knocker on the front door awakened her from a deep sleep. She rolled out of bed, hurried to the window and saw three men standing almost elbow-to-elbow in the scrubby weeds of her dooryard. The morning was foggy, the sun barely above the horizon, and she could not tell who they were, just two men in white shirts and one in a dark jacket that might have been red. She saw that all three had long guns that they were just then priming them. She heard Moses unlatch and then open the front door and as she was turning away to find her robe she heard the door slam closed and then there were crashing shots, two almost together and then a third, just a second later.

Startled, she looked back outside and saw that the men were reloading their muskets in a cloud of smoke, standing right where they had been. One looked up at her and smiled. She thought of her pistol, still where she had left it on the sideboard, but quickly realized it would do no good, one against three. That made no sense. Foolish!

Anne ran down the stairs in her slim nightgown and barely glanced at the two splintered holes in her thick door or at Moses' bleeding body where it lay sprawled in the hallway, his head at a very odd angle, mouth gaping. She trotted to the kitchen, grabbing her small weapon on the way, grasped Bess's hand and dragged her out the back door wordlessly. Anne hurried her cook to the smokehouse, scattering geese and chickens, stepped inside and then found some balks of wood with which to brace the door. She could feel her heart beating rapidly and her anger rising.

The thin smoke from the untended fire, now mostly glowing coals, curled up through the shuttered hole at the apex of the roof. "Sit and be quiet," she told her cook with a finger to her lips, seeing the fear and wonder in the old woman's eyes.

She sat on the wide sill, grasped her knees and listened, her heavy pistol in her lap. She looked at her fancy weapon and smiled. It was loaded but not primed. Useless. Her feet were cold, bare and cold. Moses is shot, probably dead. They want to kill me, I'm sure of it. Who are they? Friends of the man I shot? She shook her head. No, they're younger, that vulgar macaroni's pals, his friends. I'd bet on it. She nodded and fought to control her breathing, setting her gun aside.

All they heard was the wind, the rustle of apple tree leaves and a few birds, cardinals mostly and then a mocking bird, showing off as usual. A shot and quickly another broke the spell, both nearby, hollow booms that made them jump. The women looked at each other. Another shot rang out, even closer, echoing for some reason. They heard men talking but could not make out the words and then the sound of horses, and it was still again except for the breeze and the crackle of the dying hardwood fire.

Anne stood and opened the door. She looked out and saw one of her goats lying near the well, its head bloody. She and Bess crept across the yard and back to the house. Anne primed her pistol while Bess went to look at Moses. The old cook came back shaking her head and wringing her hands. "He's gone, Miz Anne. Shot two times far as I can see. Poor man. Poor ole man."

Anne hurried upstairs and quickly dressed in an old cambrick shirt and her father's serge trousers, her gardening costume. She pulled on her boots and hurried out to her new stable. Both horses had been shot in the head and lay crumpled in their stalls. She took a deep breath, swallowing a curse and feeling her gut convulse. The barn cat meowed at her from the rafters.

She went back to the house, traded her weapon for an apple, told Bess to hide in the smokehouse if anyone came, and then headed for town, trotting and then walking and trotting again. It took her nearly a half-hour to get to the law office she had so often visited. It was closed and locked. She looked up. The glaring sun was just starting to burn off the haze, and she guessed it might be seven o'clock. Then she heard the clang of a hammer striking steel and walked quickly to the blacksmith's shed.

"Mr. Jamison," she said when she got her breath. "I'm in trouble. I need help."

He set aside the hinge he was working on, wiped his hands on his heavy apron and smiled at her, taking a quick breath, never having seen anyone so lovely dressed so poorly.

"Some men, three men, young men I think, came to my house this morning and killed my slave, an old man, a harmless old man, and then they shot my horses and one of my goats and left. The cook and I hid in the smokehouse."

"Damnation. You all right? You ain' hurt?"

She shook her head. "Just scared and angry. What should I do?"

"Les' go find the sheriff. He's usually in the tavern, jawing with Bill and drinkin' his coffee."

He was there and Anne sat after thanking the smith. The sheriff poured her a mug of coffee from his tin pot. "What brings you to town this early, Miss Conroy?" He tried not to stare at her strange dress.

"Trouble, sir, murder in fact."

He stopped smiling, and she told him what had happened.

"Three men? You recognize any of them?

Anne shook her head. "It was foggy. This was about an hour ago, hour and a half, barely dawn. I think they were young, all about the same size, all wearing long-sleeved shirts. No, one had on a jacket. I think it was red, hard to tell."

"And they shot your old darky and your horses? Did they go into your house like they were looking for you?"

"I don't think so. They might have. We hid."

He nodded and stroked his thick mustache. "We have two militia companies you know. One's legal, that's what Philip is in, home guard right now and, I must admit, quite lukewarm, and one more or less illegal, loyal, the Chalmers bunch. Most a'them's gone, couple a'hundred maybe. That boy you chased out of town was part of that, the Tory company." He wiped his mouth and made a sour face. "And then there are the Methodists, a troublesome lot."

Anne sipped her strong coffee and watched the man. He was obviously disturbed, deep creases above his nose. "What can I do?" she asked, worried and unhappy, unaware that her father's old shirt was flaring open.

He snorted and rubbed his chin. "Run. That's what they want you to do; run away and hide." He sighed. "I've got some people, some contacts here and there, ears and eyes. We'll ask around; see if anybody's bragging."

"You said that about the fire."

He nodded. "Let's go over to the livery stable, get you a horse. That I know how to do."

They had several big-footed workhorses for sale, but no suitable riding horses, just a couple of long-legged, over-age hunters with fat knees and a spavined cob. Anne agreed to buy the youngest of the group, what the owner called a Brabant, after turning down a pair of oxen. Then she went to the law office to get some money and told Philip and Mr. Maguire what had happened early that morning.