Chapter 8

The front door banged open again, and somebody stuck his head in and yelled, "Billy, they're here!" There was a loud scramble of men grabbing weapons and hurrying out the door while buttoning their coats one handed. Judge Peter said, "Let's take another brief recess. Mr. Morrison, a word, please" before Alex Beall could say anything about standing up.

"I would appreciate it very much," Judge Peter said, standing at his desk with his feet planted wide apart and his hands clasped behind him, "now that we are under way, if you would go out there as both an officer of this oddly constituted court and as a King's officer and see if you can prevent bloodshed. Perhaps you can convince whoever it is to let us finish this business, which I believe we have well begun."

"Yes m'lord, yes sir," said Morrison, clicking his heels and looking around for his hat. Not finding it, he hurried outside, bewigged but hatless and swordless, his coattails flapping and his empty scabbard banging at his leg until he grabbed it. I followed, looking for my rifle as I went past the doorway and out into the bright sunlight.

At the corner of the tavern Beckwith's double row of riflemen had retrieved their various weapons and had formed their ranks with their muskets at the rest in front of them. They was trying to look grim, but a lot of them looked worried if not a'feared. Couldn't hardly blame them. Facing them some twenty yards away was a loose file of horsemen with carbine-muskets in their hands. Lt. Morrison ran right between the two forces and down to where the British officer sat his mount in a bright red coat with a single gold epaulet, his sword resting upright on his shoulder.

"Sir," Morrison yelled out, as the horsemen seemed to be inching forward and rifles and muskets clicked and clacked behind him as frizzen pans were opened and priming powder poured, "be so good as to halt your men, if you will, sir."

"Who in God's great, green mercy are you?" the young officer asked, raising his gloved hand. I saw him up close later, and I'm sure he didn't shave more'n once a month.

"Leftenant Frederick Morrison of the Royal Governor's Guard," the thin man in the green coat said, proud of that and then with a smile doffing a nonexistent hat and making a leg. "And you?"

"Ensign Will Macalester. These saddle-sore dragoons and I have been out all day searching the highways and the byways for you in this woebegone hinterland and for the Georgetown constable, mister, ah..."

"Wainright, you've found him," Morrison provided and waved toward the tavern. "He is within and safe as houses. I think it would be good, most helpful and proper if you would have your men dismount, stack arms, and come inside where it is quite warm and friendly. Leave a man on guard, of course. I can promise you some decent rum and good entertainment as easy as kiss my hand."

The young officer looked perplexed, but his men were smiling at each other and starting to lower their weapons. Morrison turned to me and asked, "Can you get a stable boy to take care of the horses for these gentlemen?" He smiled and licked his lips, obviously ill at ease.

"Right away," I said while the redcoats dismounted at their officer's gesture and stacked their weapons in pyramids at the side of the road. I ran behind the tavern and rousted out the stable man and together we gathered up the British mounts and got them under cover in the shed. As I headed for the back of the courthouse, Annie's door creaked open and she stuck her curly head out. "What in blaze's going on?" she asked in a loud whisper as her calico cat slipped out between her feet and galloped back towards the stable. For a housecat, she was a demon mouser.

"You wouldn't believe it," I told her. "Come and take a look."

We opened the back door, and I pointed. The courthouse was full of seated men again and in the back perched a row of Redcoats, at ease with their crossbelts loose and most with a tin or mug of rum in their hands. "Oh my," Annie said, chewing at her lower lip, "Who's going to pay for all this?" She scurried back to her hut to sit with the ladies, and I found a place behind Alex Beall where I could see and hear what was going on. What with the banked fire in the big chimney and the growing crowd, the room was warming considerable. Tobacco smoke curled and eddied among the cobwebs in the rafters and roof beams.

"Now Mr. Foster," Constable Wainright was saying as he smoothed down his long jacket and settled his wig, "are you suggesting that you never laid a hand on Mr. Beall, on the defendant here. That you simply told him to leave?" He arched an eyebrow.

"I may have helped him toward the door. He was moving very slowly out of spite, dragging his feet and saying his unneeded goodbyes to my daughter as he went."

"I see," said Wainright, "so you pushed him?"

"I suppose." Foster squirmed a bit and looked over at the jurymen.

"Shoved him, pummeled his back perhaps?"

"I may have. I wanted him out, immediately," Foster said with some energy.

"Did you kick him?"

"No, no."

"And at your very doorway?" Wainright stopped.

"He turned and hit me, the coward. Then he ran."

"Might one of his feet actually have been outside your door?"