Chapter 2

A couple or maybe three hours later from the ridge above George-town we could see the dark river, some glowing lamps and a few lighted windows. It must have been after midnight, and Billy had given me the job of counting people and finding Jim Griffith and Mike Ware. We huddled together to keep warm and smoked, chewed some food and stomped our feet. The wind had died down, but it was still very cold. We all breathed out clouds of steam like a herd of beeves.

I found the men he wanted and sent them to see him. He gave them the job of waiting where we were and sending on latecomers and suggested they keep up the small fire we'd started by the roadside. Then he sent me to find Nate Murdock, which wasn't hard since he was one of the first and loudest ones there that night, and I knew him on sight because he dealt with Mr. Hite. Besides he was almost always telling one story or another to anybody'd listen so I heard him before I saw him.

I listened to Billy talking with Murdock, heads together and hands on each others shoulders, and telling him he was going to divide the group and for him to take his men and head toward the Rock Creek and come down that way and cut off anybody that tried to leave town over the bridge.

"Close that damn bridge, close it tight. Don't shoot if you don't have to, just stop 'em. Tie 'em up or whatever but don't let them muttonheads get out to tell Annapolis or Bladensburg what's happening."

Murdock picked out about ten men and disappeared in the night. Everybody was mounted that evening, and I expect there were quite a few horses out there that had a strange rider on their backs and a few work critters that hadn't been saddled for a long time. Stud Farrell had lent me one of his father's nags, but I didn't see Stud there. Didn't half expect to since he was a greenhorn, barely half growed back in '76. I imagined he was rolling in Annie's cot, trying to get it up again, and I wished we could change places. Bitter, that's the word for that long night.

By the time Jimmy Griffith had his crackling fire stoked up, Billy Beckwith was talking to Gus Yore, a tough looking customer if there ever was one. Gus was shorter and wider than most and looked like he was always trying to pick a fight. He swaggered when he walked and expected other men to get out of his way. They got to arguing a bit, but then Gus agreed to whatever it was Billy wanted, and Beckwith yelled, "Let's go," and waved us toward the river. I told him I had counted thirty-seven so I guess there was about twenty-five of us in Beckwith's "army." Didn't seem like very many out there in the dark.

Pretty soon we had gravel and cobblestones underfoot and some lamps started shining in the houses we were passing. I could see heads silhouetted at upstairs windows, but we hadn't seen hide nor hair of any night watchmen yet. At every lane and cross street Beckwith had Gus Yore detail a couple of men to stay and stand guard for a while. He let Gus pick 'em out and give them directions so I'm not sure what they were told. Our little army was getting smaller. Nobody was talking and even the horses seemed to be stepping extra quiet and careful. There was a good bit of dung on the street, just waiting for the morning crew with their brooms and shovels.

Billy Beckwith came back in the crowd and found me about then. "Where's this damn constable's office? I han't been down here since we raided that mill over on the creek." I told him we were almost there as we were coming down the High Street hill and around the last curve. He said, "Come on" and pulled me up to the front with him. I had to kick my old horse to keep up.

When we got to the dark office, I pointed out the door, and Beckwith raised his hand and everybody stopped, dismounted and stomped around, blowing steam. He said to Gus Yore, in an ordinary voice when I thought he ought to whisper, "Take some men down to that next intersection, that's Bridge Street I think," and Gus took a half dozen and headed on toward the river, walking their horses. Then Beckwith looked at me, pointed to the door and said, "Bust it down."

I looked at the latch and lifted my right foot and kicked it open. It didn't splinter, just popped. "Who's the bloody hell's that?" somebody inside yelled as three of us tried to get through the door at the same time. We had caught one of the town's night watchmen sleeping on the job with a shuttered lantern by his elbow. With a rifle muzzle pushed against his breastbone, I couldn't say whether he looked more scared than embarrassed.

"Go ahead, Caleb," Beckwith ordered, "you know where his cell is." I felt kind of funny being in front in case somebody had a gun in there, but I went on into the next room and down the stairs. The place was empty and so were the cells. "Ned," I yelled and the echo answered but no one else did. My throat kind of clogged up down there in the dark.

"Damn," Billy Beckwith said. "Alex Beall was wrong, and he ain't wrong about people very often. Come on back up here."

"They might'a heard us coming," I said as I mounted the narrow treads.

"I reckon," Beckwith admitted. "Let's get out of here. Take that feller down and lock him in one of them cells."

On High Street again, Beckwith looked around. "We need to get out of the cold and think about what to do next," he said, mostly to himself I think. Then he asked me, "What's that place over there?"

I told him it was a big tavern, a first rater.

"Let's go," he said, and we advanced toward the big, two-story, brick and stone tavern dragging our animals. There was one lamp burning in the first floor ordinary and a couple of candles lit in the rooms above. Beckwith looked at the heavy, cross braced front door, and then we walked around to the side. "Try that one." he said pointing to a door made of three pieces of six-inch pine. It took me two kicks to break the center board and reach in and trip the latch. Beckwith left a couple of men on guard there as he had at the constable's office and the rest of us, maybe a dozen or so, went on inside the tavern. "Build up that fire," was the first thing Billy said as he came through the common room like a horse in a hen house. "Stay away from the liquor," was the second.

Just then we heard someone clumping down the stairs from the floor above and a figure appeared at the far doorway with a small oil lamp in one hand and a big pistol in the other. "Vhat the devil is this?" the fat man wearing a bristling, white mustache asked.

Billy walked up to him, grabbed the pistol from the old man's hand and grinned at him. "Come on and join us," he said as he dumped out the pan and took it off half-cock.

"Who the hell are you?" the portly innkeeper asked in a whining voice. He was dressed mainly in a dark blanket and a night cap with his thin legs stuck into black boots, and he was squinting at Billy who was pushing him along the hall. "This is my place. You filthy bumpkins don't belong here."

"Of course we do," Billy said with a chuckle. "We're the Maryland militia, and you have the honor of being the first place of business liberated this night. What's the date?" he asked. Nobody was sure.

"Liberated, liberated from vhat?" the man asked looking around and counting his score of uninvited guests who were now seeking food, drink and things that weren't nailed down tight.

"From the bloody hand of British tyranny, you squintfart," Beckwith said making a grand gesture. "And we're hungry. Go wake up your cook." Billy prodded the man with his own pistol, and he scampered out the door he had come in. "Caleb," he said to me, "maybe you best go with him and keep him out of trouble."

I followed the retreating figure down the dim hall to the back of the inn, where he rang a triangle and cried, "Alarm, alarm, call out the vatch," as loud as he could, I guess. I grabbed him and put my forearm across his mouth, and he fainted and fell right down on the floor like he was dead. I felt his chest to make sure his heart was still pumping and then pushed him off to the side and waited to see what his alarm would bring.

A tall woman appeared at the foot of the back stairs and then another almost right behind her. I put up my hand and stopped them both. The first one, a big, fair-haired young woman, said, "Vem ur, helvete, who are you?" I smiled at her. I had seen the Swede before when I worked right down the street, and I recognized her even without all the fancy face paint. I held her wrist and raised a finger to my mouth and said, "Stop." She stopped, silent. Damn, but she smelled good. The other woman was slim and very black, ebony, shiny black. "You the cook?" I asked. She nodded her head yes. I said, "Go fix some breakfast for 'bout fifty hungry men." Her eyes widened, but she went, mumbling to herself.