Chapter 6

Alexander Beall's wife was in her rocking chair knitting heavy woolen stockings when he got home. He went to the fireplace to warm up, pulled the swinging gudgeon toward him and stirred the stew pot hanging from its sooty trammel. He sniffed the peppery aroma and smiled. Beef was a rare break from their usual diet of venison and squirrel.

"Leave that alone and try those on," his wife said pointing with her elbow at a pair of gray stockings lying beside her.

Beall sat and pulled off one boot.

"Lord, look at that. You got a hole in them already. I don't know how you do that. Take a knife and pare your toenails." Margaret Beall tried to look serious but her sunny disposition made it difficult. She shook her head in mock disgust.

Beall smiled and pulled on one of the new stockings. It felt prickly and warm. "Fits fine," he said and dragged off the other boot. He left his wife the stockings he had been wearing, both with holes poked through the toes. Some of the younger men were wearing long trousers now, tucked into high boots, especially in the winter, but Beall stuck with his accustomed knee breeches.

"You ready to eat?" his wife asked, putting her unfinished knitting in the basket beside her and rolling up a ball of wool.

"Like always," he answered, and she started ladling stew into white, china plates and then fetching bread while he washed his hands at the basin.

"You make this today?" Beall asked, wiping his hands along his thighs and ignoring the piece of homespun his wife held out to him.

"Wednesday I bake, like I have long as we been married. Which reminds me: we need some oven wood, split maple, please, or cherry if you can find it. I don't think the fire was quite hot enough today. Crust don't seem right."

"No, it's good bread, as always." Beall said put his hand over his wife's. "Thank you, Margaret."

"Case you're wondering, this meat came from the McNabs. They butchered an old cow, and I traded her three of those doves you have hanging out in the shed for about half a haunch."

"Good trade. You ladies do have your own sources, don't you?"

"Course we do. You men never talk about anything important like food or clothes. You'd be running around naked chewing on tree bark, wasn't for us." Margaret Beall risked a smile across her bony face. Her sharp nose and high cheekbones gave her a hawk-like appearance that her wit and dark eyes constantly softened.

"Think we'd invent clothes on a day like this. Likely freeze some important parts off, if we didn't."

"Important to you, are they? Thought they was just decoration." She laughed and he joined her. "Spect what you'd do is crawl into some poor woman's cave, and being naturally charitable, she'd take you in."

Mopping his bowl with a piece of bread, Beall asked, "You suggesting women are fools to take care of men?"

"Well," Beall's wife leaned back and looked toward the rafters. "There's some old men out there wore out three or four young women, fathered sixteen, eighteen children on 'em. Planted them in the ground and went and found another fool. I don't recollect any women that buried a handful of husbands, do you?

"Oh, there's been a few, I'm sure. There's one over in Prince Georges owns a sight of property from her several, late, lamented spouses," Beall said, still smiling and enjoying himself. "But I don't like the way this conversation's running."

"I guess you don't," said his wife. "And don' forget the kindling when you get that hardwood for the oven?"

Mansfield Clagett's place was one of the older homes in the central part of what had been called Arnold County during the revolution, or "revolt" as some now called it. Over the years the house had grown additions, bays and ells including a large summer kitchen at the back. A staggering line of outbuildings stretched down one side of the enclosed backyard with a stuccoed privy and a deep icehouse holding down the ends. A covered well stood at the edge of the back porch with the big barn facing the smoke house, tool shed and chicken coop that closed off the other side of the bare yard. As he often did when he rode into this place, Beall wondered if any of the Clagetts owned a plumb bob.

Alexander Beall walked his mare into the barn to get her out of the cold drizzle. He wiped her down with his hat and a handful of straw, and then went up to the back door and knocked. The door pushed open under his fist so he walked into an empty back room and called out, "Mr. Clagett, anybody home?"

The connecting door swung open and a small, round woman bustled in wiping her hands on her apron. "Lord, you scared me, Alex Beall" she said. "Didn't hear you ride in. Is it raining again?"

"Morning Mrs. Clagett," Beall said. "Yes'm, it's trying to."

"How about some tea. Water's hot."

"No, thank you, well, maybe a cup for the chill," Beall said as the woman was already pouring steaming water into a brown pot. "Is Mr. Clagett home?"

"Oh yes. He's in there working on the books as usual. Here take these cups and go on in."

Beall stuffed his shapeless hat under his arm and carried the handless mugs into the next room where Mansfield Clagett sat before a large cherrywood desk that had a hutch-top almost touching the dark-beamed ceiling. Mrs. Clagett followed with her teapot, filled both cups and then left the men alone. Clagett and Beall nodded to each other and drank for a few minutes, warming their hands as well as their insides.

"Came to see about your roads," Alexander Beall said when he put his cup down.

"Not surprised." Mr. Clagett crossed his long, bony legs. Oft-darned places showed in his stockings. His breeches hung loose at the knee, unbuckled.

"Looks like they need some work, Field. Is there a problem? You ailing?"

"No, I just ain't got around to it, Alex. Other things come up. They always do, and I put them ditches off."

"Got to be scraped too, some of them byways."

"I know. I'll do it 'fore it freezes hard." He smiled sheepishly.

"You need some help? They're pretty bad down near the tavern where they get a lot of travel and, of course, where the stage goes through."

"No, no. There's still plenty of Clagetts about. Just have to round up a few and get going, that's all. I'll get Mose over there in Lem's house to come help. He owes me a favor. Him and one of Philip's boys can do it in three or four days I think."

"I don't know. Ditches look pretty bad down there near the courthouse, all clogged with weeds." Beall said shaking his head and looking serious.

"I'll get it done, nohow. Don't you worry."

"I'm not worrying, Field. Just doing my job."

They both went back to tea sipping. Beall nodded toward the big, open ledger on the desk. "How was it this year? You git it figured out?"

"Hard to say, hard to say. Tobacco price was pretty good, 'course that was last year's crop, but we have a heavy account down at the factor's store. Hope to break even. You know what Franklin said 'bout happiness."

"Right, make a penny more than you spend, that's all it takes."

Beall finished his tea and took out his pipe. Clagett shook his head at him, "No, Beall," he said. "Not in here. Wife'd have a conniption fit. Let's go out to the barn. Jus' grab a coal there to light up with."

Clagett levered his big body out of his chair, and the two men walked together to the barn entrance and stood looking at the rain glistening on the edges of everything. Beall lit his pipe and then flicked the glowing ember out of the bowl and into the wet, and Mansfield Clagett cut himself a good-sized chew from his twist of almost-black tobacco.