Chapter 1

"Um, Annie, that was a good one. Should hold me a week at least. Wore it down to a nubbin." The big man stretched and threw his long, scarred legs over the side of the narrow bed. He thrust his stockinged feet into well-worn boots and stood, pushing most of his long shirttail down into his breeches, buttoning up his waistband and then buckling his wide belt. He dug two worn shillings from the purse at his side and placed them quietly on the bare room's only other piece of furniture, a wobbly chair of uncertain heritage. "We've got to figure a way a'getting some heat in here, girl. Man could freeze his arse off while he's pleasuring himself."

"Go on. You know that mealy mouthed Davis's not going to let me cut through that there old wall. I dast not ask Mr. Willson." The slight young woman stood and smoothed down her shapeless linsey-woolsey dress and pulled on a knitted shawl. She wiggled her feet into wooden clogs and stood on tiptoe to kiss the man's cheek.

"Agh, you need a shave," she said, rubbing her mouth and wrinkling her freckled nose. "Stand closer to that old razor next time."

The man smiled and rubbed her thin back.

"I saw some small, iron stoves in Georgetown last month," he said, patting her rump. "Think they're made up Catoctin way, kind'a squarish. I'll see about getting you one next time I'm down there with a wagon. Can't cost too much, and there's plenty of fire wood around."

"Thought they burned charcoal," the girl said through a yawn.

"Burn durn near anything, I guess."

"Well, that would be a help. I'll wait to celebrate till I see it." She lifted her chin and grinned at him.

"Soon, real soon." He pushed open the shed's cross-braced door and stepped across the mossy flagstones to the back of the adjoining tavern and entered its dark, fragrant warmness. A farmer he knew only as Reilly sat at the far table, pushing an empty tankard back and forth in his big hands.

"You finished, sheriff?" Reilly asked with a smile that showed his crooked, yellow teeth.

"For now," the big man said as the farmer rose and went out the back way.

Alexander Beall watched through the back door's dirty window as the man tapped on Annie's shed and then he turned to the bar. "How about a beer, Stud?"

"Coming right up, Sheriff." The young bartender turned the spigot on the big barrel and filled a tin. "How you been?"

"Wish you'd stop with that 'sheriff.' You know I ain't been sheriff for, what, well, some time."

"Jes' the same, you're the onliest one we ever had. That fellow from up in Frederick, what was his name? O'Neal? They say he didn't even come down here in the old days. I never seed him when I was a sprat."

"Well now we ain't got one and probably won't have none as long as you, Governor Eden and me last." Beall drank off half his tepid beer and wiped his mouth with the base of his thumb. He thought of Annie swiving that farmer in her cot. It was mid-week; the tavern was empty except for him and young Michael Farrell, generally called "Stud" in reference to his father's work with horses rather than his own prowess.

"You been tickling our Annie?" the barman asked as the front door opened. Both men looked up. A cold wind blew in along with a traveler who strode toward the crackling fireplace well wrapped in a shaggy frieze overcoat and heavy scarf. "Howdy, Mr. McNish," the bartender called turning over a small glass and fetching a squat bottle of dark whiskey. "The usual? You hear the news?"

The man by the fire grunted, unwound his scarf and stamped his feet. He took off his old fashioned tri-cornered hat and then unbuttoned his heavy coat and hung it and his hat on a wall peg before he came to the bar.

"Mr. Beall," he said with a small nod of his graying head.

"Tom," said Beall in reply. "How's the wife?"

"Oh fine, just fine." He sipped his drink and shivered. "Damn cold out. Wind's like a knife. Too early for snow, ain't it?"

Both men drank in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching motes of dust drift through the occasional sunbeam.

"Heard something down at the mill might interest you," Tom McNish said, his voice brighter as he warmed. "Took down a load of corn. Got a better price than I would a month ago. Was a feller there, up from Georgetown, says the revolt's done, over, kaput. He was looking over Magruder's mill, thinking of buying it, so he said. You know the governor took it, I guess."

Beall nodded. Samuel Wade Magruder had been one of the best-known rebels in short-lived Arnold County's history and like the others on a long list, had forfeited his hundreds of acres, his many slaves and his brick home at Locust Grove to the Royal Governor as the price of his treason. A few, like Charles Caroll, the rich and aristocratic Catholic, had paid with their lives, but most only lost their pledged fortunes and priceless honor.