Chapter 6

The sun was setting behind some pink and gray clouds when we reached Mr. Peter's sturdy brick house. The first floor windows all showed candle light as Beall tied his horse to a weight and set it on the curbstone. "You plan to sit out here and wait?" he asked me. I couldn't figure if he wanted me to say yes so I said no, I'd rather get out of the cold. We went up to the door together and Beall knocked. A well-dressed, old black man answered and said, very polite, that Mr. Peter was at home and would we come in and wait. We did and stood admiring the papered walls, painted wainscot, tall clock, high ceilings and gold-framed pictures.

Pretty soon, here came the master of the house, without a wig and in a black suit and soft shoes. His forehead was high, and his hair was thin, gray and cut short where it showed near his soft cap. He didn't offer Mr. Beall his hand or ask us in to sit down. He said, clipping out the words like they was shillings, "I did not expect to see you again so soon, Mr. Gally. How do, Mr. Beall." I was surprised he knew my name.

"Mr. Peter, sir," Beall said, taking the letter from inside his coat. "I have a message here from Justice Burgess and Constable Wainright." Robert Peter looked curious at that, raising a thin eyebrow, took the letter and popped it open with his thumb. He took out and unfolded a pair of eyeglasses and stood there under a ring of candles in his front hall and read one side and then the other and then went back and read the first side again.

"Preposterous," he said, taking off his glasses. And snorting, a very odd sound.

"Sir?" Alexander Beall said.

"Outrageous," Peter said, putting his glasses away.

"Yes sir," Beall said, "but will you do it?"

"Of course. I couldn't turn this down unless I was on my death bed or Noah's flood was coming down the river. When do they propose to hold this trial?" Peter looked up at Alexander Beall and squinted.

"As soon as you can get there. We are expecting some, ahem, well, there might be some trouble, you know, so tomorrow would be best for everyone."

"Yes, yes. We had a detail of British riders, regulars as far as I could tell, come through an hour or two ago, hussars perhaps. Wouldn't surprise me if they didn't head north."

"I believe you know our courthouse, that region." Beall said.

"Verra well. I own several farms in the general area and a number of others twixt Georgetown and there and also out near Log Town; is that what they are calling that squat, odorous village now?"

Beall nodded and then suggested, "We could go out tonight, but the road is dark, no moon, and it is quite cold."

"Yes," Mr. Peter agreed. "I'm sure first thing in the morning will be adequate for all purposes."

Mr. Beall stuck out his hand and Mr. Peter took it. "Thank you," Beall said. "We'll see you an hour after sunrise."

"Where are you staying; have you a room?" Peter asked as we turned back toward the wide front door where the black servant stood in silence.

"We'll find an inn," Beall said.

"Ha," said Robert Peter. "Don't try Slater's, and I wouldn't send a pig's mother to any of the other places. Come, you'll stay here. I've plenty of room."

And so we did and ate a small meal, used the fancy House of Necessity in the back garden and slept in a soft bed under fluffy quilts on the third floor and woke to hot water in big jugs and a breakfast fit for a hungry dock hand or a starving mill worker. We had beer and coffee and tea and hot milk and biscuits and corn dodgers and fried steaks and cold gammon and boiled chicken and sliced tongue and fritters and honey, pickled pears and some preserved foods I couldn't even recognize.

Mr. Peter had his fancy carriage brought out. It was drawn by a pair of almost-matched grays who had been trained to pick up their front feet together. I couldn't see any sores on them. Peter, dressed in a long, heavy coat and an old fashioned winter hat with a muffler, met us in the front hall.

"Mr. Gally," he said, "would you drive Mr. Beall's wagon so I can talk with him on our way north?"

I couldn't figure any way to get out of that and into the carriage so I nodded, and we headed out High Street, stopping once along the way, with me following along behind his glistening black rig. In the sun, it wasn't too cold, but the horses were blowing steam as we took the hills and moved along at a good pace. When we came to that highest hill where Beckwith had left men to guard the road, Nate Murdock himself stepped out into the wind and stopped us.

"Hey Caleb," he called to me. "Keeping right fancy company this morning." He looked up at Mr. Peter's black driver in his plush livery and asked, "Where you going, boy?" The driver had been full growed when Braddock went north, I'm sure.

"North," the man answered without bothering to look down as Alexander Beall stepped out of the carriage. He and Murdock talked for a few minutes, and then Mr. Beall came back to his own rig.

"You want to ride with Mr. Peter, Caleb? I think he and I are about talked out."

"That's all right," I said. "I've got to where I like this, and your old horse is doing fine."

"Nate says they spotted some Redcoats heading this way late yesterday, but they turned east before they got up here."

"Mr. Peter said he saw some British riders, didn't he? Go on and ask him what he 'spects they'll do."

"Suit yourself," he said, and we went on our way. I'm sorry I missed a chance to talk to Mr. Peter now, but I got to see almost everything that happened later that day. Some show that was.