Chapter 4

Then things started happening pretty fast. Mr. Wainright said goodbye to the Swede; then I nodded a farewell to her and durn if she didn't get up on her toes and brush her soft lips against my stubbled cheek. Whooee. I went and called in the bridge guards, and they brought those four extra muskets with them.

Somebody fetched the Foster women in their fancy pleasure carriage with the hickory-sprung seats, only one like it in town. Mrs. Foster was wearing a pelisse, plus a red hood with a cape and a dark mask. Nelly had on a coat like a man's with lots of buttons at the cuffs and a fancy tricorn hat. Both had their hands stuffed into big muffs. I couldn't tell whether Mr. Foster was tied in or not, but he was sure noisy and unhappy, full of foul threats and dire predictions. His wife kept trying to hush him. One of our boys was driving with his horse hitched on the back. I put the extra muskets in that buggy, turned loose the watchman who had spent the night in Ned's cell, and out the old rolling road we went, up and down all them pesky hills.

Along the way Billy Beckwith left off some men to guard the routes that led to the courthouse. At the top of the long hill where Jacob Funk's improved road to Captain John branched off and Colonel Belt's lane turned east, Nathaniel Murdock himself was put in charge. Most of that, so he claimed, was Murdock land, or had been, and right where the River Road met the main Georgetown-Frederick road, a scruffy man and his wife called Tennolly or some such were operating a tavern, probably without a license from anybody. It wasn't much, but Murdock and his boys could stay warm there and have a grog or two, perhaps a wench or two as well.

Beckwith sent Gus Yore and another five out to the Brookeville-Bladensburg crossroads where an old, run-down inn did business, mostly with smugglers. I heard him give both groups the same orders. "Don't stop the stage or farmers' wagons," he said, "but make sure they see you and explain what's going on. Tell 'em we're having an Arnold County trial. If a bunch of Redcoats or Provincial militia show up, challenge them, parley, slow 'em down if you can and send a rider to the courthouse to tell us how many's coming. Try to stay out of a fracas; no shooting if you can help it. We don't want anybody hurt. We been lucky so far."

By the time the sun was high, we were back at the old courthouse that just looked like a tavern 'cause that's what it was. Most of the men headed for home, dog weary and frostbit, but Beckwith, Ned Beall, the Foster family and me went on into the old tavern. Stud Farrell, Alex Beall, Annie and her prowling orange, black and white cat were the only ones there at the time. The cat pretended not to notice us.

"You have a good night?" Beall asked Billy Beckwith.

"Tolerable," he said. "Not much sleep. Like you to meet Mr. Foster. Think you know his wife and daughter."

Beall nodded to the ladies, who were both wearing hooded riding capes, and stuck his hand out to Mr. Foster who stared at him a minute and then shook his hand. "Beall," said Mr. Foster. "You kin to the rapscallion here that knocked out my tooth?"

"Yessir," Alexander Beall said. He cocked his head sideways and peered at Foster's mouth. "I'm his uncle. Thought he got two. Shows how folks exaggerate."

"This isn't funny, Beall," Foster snarled. "These halfwit bandits have taken the law into their own hands. They kidnapped us and are holding Georgetown's constable and another officer, a Canadian I believe, holding them prisoner. If you have any influence with them, I urge you to end this rattlebrained affair quickly."

Mr. Beall scratched behind his left ear and smiled. "Fraid I don't have any say in this, Foster. It's surely out of my control. Ain't that so, Billy?"

Beckwith didn't answer. He turned his back on Alex Beall and ushered the Fosters to a table near the fireplace. Then he had Wainright and the Canadian brought in and untied their hands. "Sit down, please," he said to all of them, and they did.

"Stud," Beckwith called, "it must be dinner time. Get some food in here for these folks and a couple of pitchers of ale and some clean tankards for a change."

"Right away," Farrell said, looking kind of surprised at the business Beckwith was bringing in. "Got some beef stew, and Mrs. Phillips made some of them beaten biscuits."

"Don't bring us none of them," Billy said with a grin. "Could be used as ammunition. Find some fresh bread and fetch a pot of butter and jam if you got any."

Stud moved off a lot faster than usual.

"Alex," Beckwith said, "I'd appreciate it if you and Caleb would listen in here and speak up if you got something to add." I turned a chair around and sat down with Mr. Beall at the next table, and Annie came and sat with us. We didn't often see any women 'cept her in the tavern, and there was pretty Nelly and her handsome momma, looking bright and clean, dressed neat as you please, like they was going to church. Nelly's momma even carried a fan. I saw that Annie eyed them very careful, and I think they sized her up pretty quick.

Billy Beckwith sat with Ned, the Fosters and the two officers he had "borrowed." He looked around at everybody for a minute or two and then he sniffed, cleared his throat and said, "Here's what we'd like to happen, tomorrow or the next day, if we can fix it up. We want to hold a proper trial of Ned, here, for hitting Mr. Foster, there, in the mouth. I think we've got all the witnesses." He looked around the table and after a bit, all of the others nodded except the Canadian, who still looked kind of poleaxed and perplexed.

"What in blue blazes is going on here?" he asked, sitting up extra straight as Stud brought the beer to the table.

"I don't believe we know your name," Beckwith said.

Constable Wainright spoke up. "Sorry. Let me present Leftenant Frederick Morrison currently attached to the Governor's militia as a training officer. Mr. Morrison is from Upper Canada, came down by packet, and has been in Maryland only a few months."

Nelly and her mother smiled and how-dee-dewed, and the men nodded their heads to Lt. Morrison who had calmed down a bit. The Canadian chewed at his thumbnail and then sipped his beer. "Do you mean to stage some sort of dumb-show trial out here in the wilderness?" he asked, shooting his lacy cuffs and looking around the dark room, I think the word is disdainfully. I heard that somewhere.

"Won't be a 'dumb show' I assure you," Ned Beall snorted and then said. "Wait'll Mr. Foster gets going. You'll hear plenty."

"Indeed he will, young man," Foster cried, standing and pointing with his walking stick. "And so will you. And you too, Nelly."