The old man sat in his rocker and sighed. Two of his small great-great-grandchildren scurried on hands and knees about the floor, exploring the nooks and crannies of the old log house while their mother, his great-granddaughter, lifted the lid from a pot of stew simmering over the open fire in the hearth. Perspiration beaded along her forehead and trickled from beneath the band of her mobcap to flow in thin rivulets down the side of one rosy cheek. Strangely, he felt cool.

He patted the back of his wife's hand. It lay atop the thin white sheet that covered her as she slumbered through the hot afternoon. She smiled without opening her eyes. He studied her face, amazed at the intricate network of crow's feet that had crept across it over the years and at the thinness of her snow-white hair. She would turn one-hundred-years old tomorrow, and old Doc Hatcher had said that if she lived to see it, it would be a miracle. Of course, this wasn't the Doc Hatcher of his younger days, but his grandson, now also wrinkled with age.

He reached up with his free hand and unconsciously rubbed his chest. The burning sensation that had kept him awake for the past week faded as a bittersweet feeling of sadness overwhelmed him. He looked at his wife again and thought of how quickly their lives had passed. He could clearly remember seeing her for the first time. When was it? Twenty years ago? Thirty? It seemed like only yesterday. He chucked aloud as he silently accused himself of senility. His granddaughter cut her eyes in his direction and gave him a small, indulgent smile.

He smiled back and settled into the rocker, pursing his lips as he mentally calculated the number of years that he had spent loving this woman. His thoughts drifted back to that beautiful morning on the Savannah River when their path's had first crossed. He nodded to himself, satisfied and amazed. It had been seventy-seven years ago that he had first laid eyes on the woman that he was destined to spend the remainder of his life with. He absentmindedly rubbed the tips of his fingers across his smallpox ravaged face, thinking back to when he was young, so young--as was she.

"Grandpaps," his granddaughter shook his arm to gain his attention. The movement startled him. He hadn't realized that he had dozed off. His first thought was for his wife. He reached out and lay a hand lightly on her chest. He sighed with relief when he felt it rise.

He looked back to his granddaughter. "Are you leavin', Eunice?" Her name reminded him of her namesake, also once young and beautiful, already dead for twenty years. The memory brought tears to his eyes and the new Eunice patted him gently on the arm again.

"I'll see you first thing in the morning'," she said softly. "There's stew warmin' by the fire if'n you get hungry."

"No need to hurry over. I think we'll sleep late."

She kissed him gently on the forehead.

"I'll see you tomorrow," the old man said again. But he secretly knew that he wouldn't. If his wife passed tonight, he had no wish to continue alone.

He waited until Eunice had gone before he pushed himself to his feet. It took all of his strength to rise. He rubbed his chest again, how it burned! And that cramp in his left shoulder just kept on naggin' at him. He rolled his arm to work out the stiffness in it and told himself that he had best skip supper tonight.

Leaving a long taper burning in a glass sided lantern; he shed his clothing and slid beneath the covers alongside his sleeping wife. He moved slowly, taking great care not to wake her.

Piling up two feather pillows, he rolled on his side so that he could watch her sleep. He had always enjoyed their moments alone. His thoughts glided back through the years. He remembered that she had once been beautiful. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

She smiled in her sleep and mumbled, "I remember," in a voice so soft that it almost escaped him.

It suddenly dawned on him that she was still the most beautiful woman in the world. His mind began to wander through all of the lost years. He could see her now, as she had been in better days.

Chapter 1

Thomas Simpson stretched his long, corded arms indolently over his head as he yawned and shook his body in the crisp morning air. He was not a particularly tall man, little more than five feet nine, but years of guiding his father's flatboat through the submerged snags of the Savannah River had left him with a square physique. He seemed almost as wide as he was tall. His demeanor suggested unlimited endurance, his face conveyed unlimited kindness.

He stood at the edge of the flatboat, tied fast to a stately oak on the Georgia bank of the Savannah River. He yawned, stretched again, then turned to look towards the shore where his father sat on a moldy log, tending their morning meal over a smoky fire. The flatboat's crew lounged indolently around the small clearing, sitting up in their crumpled blankets half awake and waiting on their breakfast. They were two days out of Augusta, halfway through their downriver journey to Savannah. Their cargo--five tons of prime deerskins.

A slight mewing sound caught Thomas's attention and arrested his movement. He cocked his head to one side, focusing on the source of the sound. He heard it again; it was coming from beneath a tarp stretched between two bales of tightly pressed buckskins. Shaking his head, he pulled the cover back, expecting to see a mother cat with a brood of kittens. His eyes widened in surprise as he looked down, instead, at a slovenly dressed woman nursing an infant. She looked up at him, her eyes bright blue, firm, and defiant.

"Well, what do we have here? A stowaway?" Thomas said. He smiled as he spoke. "I thought that only happened on the tall ships down to Savannah." He studied her face as he talked, gauging the tone of his words; they were meant to put her at ease. He held out his hand, offering to help her rise. The woman made no attempt to take it. Her eyes darted quickly towards the shore, then returned to him. Thomas dropped the tarp back over her and let his hand fall to his side.

"Suit yourself," he said, speaking to her through the tarp. "I'm goin' to get some breakfast. Come on over to the fire if'n your hungry." He turned and sauntered off.

Taking a seat alongside his father, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He made no mention of the woman, sensing that at some point he may need to deny ever having seen her. She had that look about her. Probably a runaway indentured servant from South Carolina, fleeing an abusive master, or husband. She would most likely be gone when he returned, fleeing in search of an uncertain future, pursuing the slight promise of a better life.

The men had just finished their breakfasts, and Thomas and his father were preparing to take their turns at scrubbing the frying pan and tin plates at the edge of the river, when the rumble of approaching horses drifted to them from the south. The unknown riders were moving rapidly in their direction. The men exchanged wary glances. Thomas's father jerked his head in the direction of the flatboat, his meaning was clear. Thomas dropped the frying pan and hopped onto the squared timbers of the boat. Entering the small sleeping compartment located in the middle of the craft, he quickly snatched a brass-barreled blunderbuss from its pegs on the wall. He flipped the frizzen open to check the priming, then snapped it shut with a metallic click. Pulling the hammer to full cock, he stood to one side of the open door, out of view of anyone on the shore, and waited tensely as the rumble grew louder. In the clearing, the other boatmen were fingering the knives and tomahawks stuffed into their belts. The man who had been assigned guard duty stepped behind the trunk of a large water oak, musket in hand, and waited.

Thomas's father continued to stand at the river's edge, facing the approaching horsemen; there were four of them. They reined in immediately when they saw the group of rivermen. Two of them separated from the group and approached, one of them held up his hand in greeting after reining his mount to a stop.

"How goes it?" he asked. "I'm Sheriff Wright, from Savannah. We're looking for a young woman with a baby." The sheriff spoke quickly, like a man in a great hurry. "To whom do I have the honor of speaking?" He directed the question towards Thomas's father.

"Richard Simpson, of Augusta. Heading down to Savannah with a load of skins."

"Pleased to meet you," the sheriff said. He jerked his head to indicate the other man sitting impatiently at his side. "The woman stole a broach and gold ring worth more'n twenty-five pounds from Mr. Savage here." He paused, waiting for an answer.

Richard shook his head, "No sir, I haven't seen a woman since we left Augusta two days ago. What's she look like? Just in case I happen on her."

Before Sheriff Wright could answer, Thomas stepped from the flatboat's cabin. "Mornin'," he said with a slight nod of his head. He eased the hammer to half cock and set the blunderbuss down, out of sight behind the door.

"Mornin'," the sheriff replied. "You seen a dark-haired woman with a sucklin' babe, son?"

Thomas pursed his lips and pretended to think for a moment, then said, "No sir, I ain't. What'd she do?"

"Thievery."

Thomas nodded knowingly, but said nothing. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and folded his arms. The sheriff looked around at the other faces in the clearing, gave his wide-brimmed hat a quick tug, said, "Thank you," spun his mount around, and continued his race northward. The other three riders followed at his heels.

"Now that's a job that I couldn't have." Richard muttered Sheriff! in a disparaging tone and returned to his dishwashing.

Thomas spent the remainder of the day using his pole to steer the boat clear of submerged snags in the river. Twice he paused long enough to fill the water bucket from the river and, after offering a dipper full of the cool liquid to his father and the other six crewmen, sat the bucket at the edge of the tarp where he was certain the woman was still hiding. He never saw her, but once when he looked, he saw that the dipper was gone. It magically reappeared later. After Thomas finished his lunch, he was careful to leave half of his cornbread next to the bales of skins, within easy reach of the woman's hiding place. It too disappeared.

That evening, they tied the boat to a gnarled oak limb waving like a lonely sentinel over the surface of the placid river. They would spend their last night here before floating down to Savannah the following morning.

Thomas stayed on the boat to tighten the lashings on the cargo while the rest of the crew kindled a fire and began preparing a meager supper ashore. When it was ready, his father waved him over.

"Bring that stowaway with you," he said causally. Caught off guard, Thomas hesitated. He turned and slowly lifted the tarp; looking down into those bright blue eyes, he smiled and said softly, "Come on out ma'am, it's suppertime."

The woman rose stiffly, the sleeping infant nestled against the nape of her neck. "Thank you, sir," she said meekly. Thomas moved to one side, watching her as she made her way to the fire. She sat using her soiled skirt as a cushion. They ate in silence.

When they had finished, the woman looked around the small circle of men, studying their faces. Her gaze settled on Thomas and his father.

"Thank you," she said, "I was famished."

"Our pleasure," both men answered. Thomas reached for the woman's plate, she stopped him. "If you will allow me to lay Roger on one of the cots in the boat's cabin, I'll wash the dishes. It's the least that I can do in payment for such a delicious meal."

Richard and Thomas, along with the other men, sat smoking their pipes and digesting their meals while they watched the woman work. She was a tiny thing, not quite five feet tall, probably no more than ninety pounds. Her hair was as black as a raven's wing and would have been as shiny except for the series of tangles and rat's nests in it. The woman sensed their eyes on her; she turned and smiled over her shoulder, then returned to her work.

"You reckon that's the woman the sheriff was askin' after?" Thomas said. He looked towards his father.

The other men in the circle simply grinned; they had known that from the moment they set eyes on her.

"Can't be no one else, I'd say," Richard answered. A wisp of gray tobacco smoke curled from his mouth as he spoke. "She don't look like a thief to me, though." He looked around at the faces of his crew. "Y'all keep this to yourselves," he said, punctuating his words with short stabs of his clay pipe. The tone of his words made it an unmistakable order.

"She don't look like one to me neither," Thomas agreed. He stood and left the fire. Stooping beside the woman, he gathered up the clean plates while she scoured the tin cups with river sand. "You're welcome to travel with us a spell," he told her.

She turned her head, studying his face intently. "That's kind of you, but you do realize that I am the woman the sheriff's looking for, don't you?"

Jacob nodded. "He says you're a thief. You don't look like one."

The woman laughed at his apparent bashfulness. "Thank you!" she said and laughed again. "May I ask what a thief looks like?"

Thomas blushed, "Well, er ... I don't rightly know ma'am. I've only seen a few, and they didn't look like you. You have a way about you." He paused, seeming to search for the right words, then continued, "For one thing, you speak and carry yourself like a lady. You're fairly different from the womenfolk around here. May I ask where you're from?"

"Wiltshire, in England. I've only been in the colonies for a few weeks."

Thomas beamed. "I thought so!" he said, pleased with himself.

Without warning the woman began to sob. Unable to think of what to do about this unexpected event, he sat alongside her, feeling foolish and uncomfortable. What do you say to a cryin' woman? he wondered. His limited experience with the fairer sex left him completely at a loss. He was saved when the woman suddenly looked up and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, still seeming to struggle to bring her emotions in check. Her eyes suddenly flared. "Bloody hell!" she exclaimed. "I had promised myself to be strong! Now, here I sit sobbing like a lost child!" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I must be strong for my child." When she opened her eyes she cast a measuring look in Thomas's direction. "I suppose that I owe you something of an explanation." She thrust her hand in his direction and waited for him to take it in greeting. "To start with, my name is Lynn Celia Claxton." She pronounced Lynn Celia as if it were a single word, Lyncelia.

Late the next evening, they poled their boat alongside the merchantman, Meg, riding at anchor between the town of Savannah and Hutchinson Island, a long, thin sliver of marshland that divided the river into two parts. It was a sturdy, if somewhat worn looking brig that plied the waters annually between Savannah and Portsmouth, England carrying the annual harvest of deerskins, silk, and turpentine along with any other marketable commodities produced in the fledgling colony of Georgia. The Captain of the brig spied the boat and called a greeting to them through cupped hands. Almost immediately, two ropes tumbled down from the ship. Thomas grabbed one and secured the front of the flatboat to the side of the larger vessel while one of the crewmen tied off the rear. Moments later, a crane swung out over the side and ropes were lowered for the cargo. In less than two hours it was safely stored in the cargo hold of the Meg.

"You've brought a fine cargo down this year, Mr. Simpson," Captain Jones complimented Richard as they sat across the table from each other. The captain had invited both men to share his supper aboard the vessel. "Here's your receipt. I trust that you'll deliver it safely to your employer in the morning. We've already unloaded his consignment of trade goods." Captain Jones pushed the document across the table. "Ten thousand pounds sterling, as agreed, to be delivered in the form of trade goods on my next voyage. One pound per pound; not bad, not bad at all!" he opined.

"Any trouble that you know of, in town?" Richard asked casually.

"A young woman that I brought over this year has absconded with some valuable trinkets. It's gotten the colonials riled up something fierce. Half of them side with her, the other half are siding with some tavern owner that she robbed." He took a long drink of steaming tea from a pewter mug and slammed it on the top of the table with a bang. "Myself, I side with the woman. She's a fine young lass who came aboard with her parents and husband 'fore we left England."

At the mention of Lynn Celia, Thomas's interest peaked. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table and peered intently at the captain. "Why, we ran into the sheriff on the way down here. He asked us about this woman. What a coincidence! Can you tell us anything about her, is there a reward?"

"Not that I know of." The captain shook his head. "Not yet, at least." He took another long drink and called for a refill. "Her parents took the ship's fever and died on the crossing. We buried them at sea. By the time that we docked, her husband was fair gone too. He died about two weeks after he went ashore." He shook his head sadly. "A shame, I call it. A young woman like that, widowed in a strange land without anyone to provide for her. And her with a babe barely five months old."

"What's this about her stealing?" Thomas asked. He sat back in his chair, satisfied with what he had heard so far. It was the exact story that Lynn Celia had told them the previous evening.

The captain rubbed his hand across his whiskered chin. "Well, from what I hear, it's bunk. The tavern owner claims that she wouldn't pay her bill after her husband died, so he took a ring and a broach from her in payment. Then, he claims, she lit out taking them with her."

"But you don't believe his story?" Richard asked quietly. He tapped Thomas on the ankle with his boot and gave him a sharp look of warning. They mustn't give themselves away with too many questions.

The captain looked from Richard to Thomas, then back again before he answered. "No, I don't. For one thing, they're goin' to auction off her trunks tomorrow at noon. That alone should settle up whatever she owes for a few night's lodging." He smiled and nodded slowly. "Something mighty queer about that business," he said. "For another thing, her father had title to almost two hundred acres of land just north of Ebenezer. I've still got the deed in the ship's safe. Don't know who to turn it over to."

A knowing looked passed between father and son; they said nothing.

The captain waited for a moment; when no response was forthcoming, he turned up his tankard and drained it in a gulp. "Well, I think that I'll turn in," he said with a nod. "You and your crew are welcome to stay aboard tonight. You can pull your boat over to the docks in the mornin'. We'll spend the day taking on fresh water and clearing with the King's revenue officer. We can be on our way the day after tomorrow."

The next morning they shoved off from the side of the Meg and steered towards the port's northernmost wharf. They tied up alongside the new structure that was still oozing sap and smelling of green wood. It seemed to glow a bright yellow alongside the tired gray timbers of the older wharves.

A well-dressed, middle-aged man on horseback, with a battered wooden peg protruding from the right leg of his trousers, hurried forward to meet them. The man smiled and raised his hand in a friendly salute. "Good to see you, Richard!" he said. He flashed them a good-natured smile and leaned from the saddle, offering his hand when Richard hopped from the flatboat onto the pier. Thomas could hear the sticky sound of sap on the soles of his father's boots as he stepped across the green boards.

"It's good to see you again, Morgan." Richard said with a smile. "We brought down ten thousand pounds of skins on this trip. Captain Jones was well pleased."

The other man laughed. "I suspect he was. Those skins will fetch a pretty penny for him in England--for us too." The man inclined his head in Thomas's direction. "Your mother doin' well?"

"Yes sir, Uncle Morgan," Thomas said with a quick nod.

Morgan smiled. "Good. You two stay put on the boat while your father heads over to the warehouse with me." His tone made it clear that the order included Lynn Celia, who stood in the doorway of the cramped cabin. He tipped his hat politely to her. "You best stay out of sight, ma'am," he said quietly.

"Morgan has arranged for our trade goods to be loaded the day after tomorrow," Richard explained when he returned. "We'll leave for Augusta the next day."

Thomas fidgeted; he seemed to be dwelling on some inner thoughts.

"What's eatin' you?" Richard asked. He smiled, guessing that it had something to do with Lynn Celia even before Thomas spoke.

"What if someone recognizes her?" Thomas asked. "As pretty as she is, everyone that walks past is bound to look at her."

Richard rubbed his chin in thought. "You've got a point there."

Followed by Morgan, he stepped past his son and entered the small cabin where Lynn Celia was sitting on one of the bunks, softly rubbing the back of her sleeping son.

"Mrs. Claxton," he said with a slight bob of his head, "I was just wonderin', what are your plans for the future? Clearly you can't stay in Savannah."

"I was hoping that I could lay hands on my two chests at Mr. Savage's tavern. I've enough money hidden in the lining to tide me over until I can get a fresh start." She hesitated for a moment before adding, "My father also had a deed to some land in Georgia." She frowned for a moment at the memory, then added, "He and my husband had planned on starting a farm in the colony. That's all they ever knew in England."

Richard's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Why on Earth didn't you pay off your bill then, lass? It would of saved you a might of trouble."

"That wasn't the kind of payment that Mr. Savage desired." Lynn Celia looked down demurely. "He didn't give me a chance to pay him, he just grabbed the only two things of value that he thought I had, and then tried to hold poverty over me to have his way. I knew that I had to get away without saying anything about the money, else he would have robbed me of it, too. Is there anything that you could do to aid me?"

Morgan rubbed his chin, a frown screwing up his normally pleasant expression. "Now that's not the story we had here in town. I suspected that Savage wasn't being totally honest. He's not known as a particularly upstanding citizen anyway. More'n one poor sailor has lost his wages over to that tavern." He took a deep breath and exhaled nosily. "You come with me lass. I'll make a little visit to John Reynolds. He's the Royal Governor for the colony. We may be able to get this straightened out and put a bee in Mr. Savage's bonnet at the same time." He paused and stared at the young woman intently. "You best be honest about this, young lady, else you could end up like Alice Riley."

"Alice Riley?" Lynn Celia asked, puzzled.

All three of the men nodded soberly. "Alice Riley," Morgan repeated. "First woman hung in Georgia." He smiled. "'Course she was a murderess, you're only accused of being a thief."

Morgan Stokes led the small party to his Savannah home, located on the southern side of Market Place Square.1 Inside, he introduced Lynn Celia to his wife, Maria, who immediately took charge of the disheveled woman. Maria took one look at Lynn Celia and called her maid, a rather plain looking Spanish woman, who appeared almost magically from a side room. Little Roger peered wide-eyed over his mother's shoulder as the three women, gabbing like a trio of excited hens, disappeared towards the back of the spacious home.

Morgan offered his two guests seats in the well-appointed sitting room. Thomas looked around appreciatively, he always found himself awed by his uncle's wealth. His uncle caught his eye. "It still amazes me also," he said with a thin smile. "I spent my early life on the frontier, like you." He waved his hand to indicate the room. "This all came about as a result of the Indian trade. Maria and I spent several years running trading posts for Mary Musgrove. Ever hear tell of her?"

Thomas nodded. "Yes sir, she was General Ogelthorpe's interpreter during the early years of the colony."

Morgan inclined his head slightly. "And a cousin of yours. Her father was my uncle, Titus, who was killed at Bloody Marsh back in King George's War. Now that was one woman who had a head for business!" He poured himself a glass of port from an elegant glass decanter. He took a sip and pursed his lips. "But she had no head at all for choosing husbands," he admitted sadly.

"Yes, sir." Thomas responded. He had been weaned on stories about the wilder days of the colony.

Morgan pushed himself back into his chair and looked towards Richard. "Well, brother-in-law, what do you think about that pretty piece of baggage that you two have picked up? Is she trustworthy?"

Thomas felt his face flush. Both of the other men saw it, his Uncle Morgan smiled. "I can see what you think," he said to the young man. He turned his attention to his sister's husband. "What's your opinion Richard?"

Richard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I think the girl's tellin' the truth. I already know that she's been honest about the deed to that land up in Ebenezer. Captain Jones mentioned it at supper last night. There's one way to be certain though, that's to go check on those chests of hers. If there is, indeed, twenty pounds stowed in the bottom, that shoots a hole plum through Savage's story."

"Just what I was thinking myself," Morgan said. He rose abruptly. "I'm going to change into something more suitable for a visit to our distinguished governor. While Maria gets that girl..."

"Lynn Celia." Thomas interrupted.

Morgan smiled and bowed slightly to his nephew. "Lynn Celia. While Maria gets Lynn Celia prepared, we'll trek over there and see if we can't get this straightened out." He gave Richard a surreptitious wink. "It's the least that I can do for family. Hey, what?"

The small party, led by Morgan, climbed the steps onto the porch of the Governor's home. Morgan adjusted his stock before rapping firmly on the door with his cane. He had dressed in his finest clothes; a well-cocked hat and a silver-tipped walking cane completed the ensemble.

The door opened, a balding, slightly built man stood staring at them for a moment before recognition crept into his eyes. "Why, Lieutenant Stokes!" he cried, using Morgan's old military title, "A pleasure seeing you."

"And you." Morgan inclined his head in the man's direction. He gestured towards Richard and Thomas. "Mr. Little, this is my brother-in-law and nephew, newly arrived from Augusta with a load of skins." He introduced the man in turn. "Richard, this is Mr. William Little, the governor's secretary."

After a series of handshakes and head bobs, Mr. Little addressed Morgan. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit, sir?" There was a slight hint of perplexity in his voice. Morgan was a rare, yet welcomed, visitor at the governor's home.

Morgan inclined his head slightly in the man's direction. "Pardon my abruptness, I would have sent a note if time had permitted, but we have something of a dilemma that the governor may be able to assist us in solving. May we be permitted to talk with him for a few moments?"

Mr. Little winked. "I think that I may be able to arrange that. If you gentleman would please step into the hall, I'll check with the governor."

He reappeared a few moments later and led the trio into a small office at the back of the house. The governor was sitting behind a mahogany desk; he held an unopened letter in one hand. He looked up and smiled. "Mr. Stokes, a pleasure to be sure." The governor stood briefly to direct them to a semicircle of chairs stationed like silent sentinels about the front of his desk. "What brings you here? Mr. Little informs me that it's something of an emergency." The governor spoke in a gruff, no nonsense tone acquired during of his years of naval service.

"Yes, sir," Morgan began. "You see, my brother-in-law here has just arrived from Augusta with a load of furs. On the way down river, he happened onto a wanted felon of yours."

The governor's eyes widened in interest, he leaned forward slightly, intent now on Morgan's words.

Morgan smiled thinly. "It's the woman who Mr. Savage is so keen to apprehend."

"Ah, yes. A thief as I recall." The governor, an astute man, smiled. "I take it that this visit has something more to it than that."

"Yes, sir," Thomas interjected unexpectedly. All three older men turned their heads to eye him. Thomas's face flushed, he cleared his throat and sat back meekly. "Pardon me, sir," he said quietly. He glanced in Morgan's direction.

"As you see, my nephew is somewhat discombobulated about this matter. They happened on the woman yesterday and brought her down river on their boat. She tells an interesting story." Morgan paused, waiting for the other man's response.

"And this story is?" the governor asked, one eyebrow cocked at a curious angle.

"It's this sir." Morgan settled his back against the slats of his chair and adjusted his stock. "The woman claims that she has the money to pay her bill at Mr. Savage's establishment, but that he tried to have his way with her. She fled, but she claims if we search two chests that she left behind, we will find twenty pounds in them, more than enough to settle her bill." Morgan paused and waited for a reaction.

The governor simply nodded. "Proceed."

"Mr. Savage is said to be auctioning off those chests this afternoon. If we could get an order to search them, we may be able to clear this woman's good name."

The governor nodded. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop. "Tell me about this woman with a good name," he said with a nod.

Morgan and William Little, accompanied by two red-coated marines borrowed from HMS Arundel, a British Navy warship riding at anchor in the harbor, approached Savage's Tavern. They had convinced Richard and Thomas to wait at Morgan's house, to keep what was about to happen from looking like a personal favor instead of an act of justice.

As they approached, Bill Savage gave them a wary eye from where he stood on the porch of his tavern. The two men, flanked by the marines, approached with even, steady steps. A motley crew of rivermen, sailors, and townspeople were milling about impatiently in a small crescent at the foot of the tavern steps as they waited for the impromptu auction to begin. They parted to let Morgan's party pass. As Savage waited, he spit a large glob of tobacco onto the ground and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"What can I do for your honors?" he said sourly. He gave Little and Morgan a venomous stare. His lips parted slightly as if he intended to say more, but the sight of the two redcoats tromping at their heels gave him a hint of warning. Instead of speaking, he forced a counterfeit smile onto his lips and waited for them to ascend the steps. Morgan's peg leg made a dull thumping sound as he crossed the boards to where Savage stood. The two men stood eye to eye. There had never been any love lost between them, and they saw no reason to pretend friendship now.

Savage shrugged his shoulders as if preparing for a free-for-all and gave Morgan a haughty look. "Come to bid on these fine articles, is it?" he asked.

Using his cane, Morgan guided Savage to one side, then jabbed the silver tip at a pair of battered trunks sitting at the edge of the porch. "Actually, we've just come to have a look through those trunks."

When Savage opened his mouth to protest, Mr. Little quickly added, "At the request of the governor." Savage paused for only a moment, a flicker of warning crossed his eyes; it was quickly gone. "There's nothing in them but sundry articles of clothing, not much of value. I'm just trying to recoup some of the losses that I sustained when that Claxton wench run off without payin' her bill." His words were clipped, defensive. "Ain't nothin' wrong with that is there, Mr. Little?"

Little gave the man a slight bow and replied, "Nothing at all, sir. It's just that we must check their contents for contraband before we can allow it to be sold. These trunks did arrive from England aboard the Meg, did they not?"

"Er ... why yes, sir. What of it?" Savage was becoming more wary by the moment, as if sensing some unseen trap.

"Did they clear with the revenue officer?"

Savage paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don't know, I reckon that they did. 'Sides, there ain't nothin' of value in them, I already checked."

Little smiled affably. "Then we may as well check them and let you get on with your business." He motioned to one of the marines who immediately opened the lid and stepped back. Morgan stepped forward and rummaged through the chest, shaking out each garment before laying it to one side. When the first trunk was empty, he upended it and nodded to the second marine, who stepped forward smartly. Using the tip of his bayonet, the soldier pried the wooden runners from the bottom of the chest. Each came lose with a loud pop, followed by a series of crackling sounds. Morgan immediately picked up one, examined it, and tossed it aside. He picked up the second and turned it over, a small hollow compartment was visible on the underside; inside was a tight roll of pound notes held together by a piece of white thread. He tapped the runner against the base of the trunk, dislodging the notes.

He handed them to Mr. Little who immediately unrolled and counted them. "Twenty pounds. Just as the woman claimed." He looked at Morgan with a knowing expression.

Savage blew out his breath in surprise. "Well I'll be!" he exclaimed, "Why on earth didn't that bloody woman just pay her bill instead of hightailing it out of town? Why, me and the sheriff rode near fifty miles trying to cut her trail."

Little gave the tavern owner a stern look. "Why indeed, Mr. Savage? Should I tell you her story?"

Savage guffawed. "I can imagine 'tis some wild tale or other. Tain't true though, that much I can swear to. You know how a woman can exaggerate when she gets excited by some imagined wrong."

"To be sure," Little said dryly. He turned to one of the onlookers. "You sir," he said. "Are you boarding at this establishment?" Sugar would not have melted in his mouth.

"Why yes, your honor," the man answered, hesitant to be drawn into something that did not concern him.

Little smiled broadly to put the man at ease. "What's the charge for room and board?"

A relieved expression crossed the man's face, then disappeared as he looked towards Savage, who was scowling mightily at Little's side.

"Why, he charges a shilling a day, your honor," the man said cautiously. He acted as if he were expecting the other boarders to denounce him for some shady crime.

Little, his right eyebrow raised in wonder, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth before he spoke. "That's a little rich for this establishment I should think!" He looked quickly towards Savage and added, "No offense intended, I assure you." With a hurrump, he straightened to his full height and mentally calculated the bill. "For the trouble you've been put to, I'll not haggle. Also, the governor has taken a special interest in seeing this case resolved; so, let me see." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "She was here twenty-seven days was it?"

Savage grunted and nodded.

"Good." Little smiled. "That would make her bill come to one pound, seven bob, would it not?"

"More like two pounds." Savage growled. "I did have to bury her husband's carcass."

"A very Christian thing to do, sir. I am sure that she will be most grateful. Two pounds it is."

Peeling two-pound notes from the roll of money, he extended them to Savage. "My men will see to these chests, seeing as how the lady's bill is now paid in full." He flashed a vacant smile, then added, "and we will withdraw your warrant also. Does that please you?"

"Aye, it pleases me." Savage said. His eyes betrayed hostility, clearly this was not the outcome that he had intended for Lynn Celia. "Now, if you men will be off, I'll get back to my work." He dismissed them with a curt wave of his hand and turned angrily on the waiting crowd. "Go on, get!" he growled, shooing them away with a wave of his hands.

Little and Morgan excused themselves politely. Followed by the two marines, each bearing a chest on a shoulder, they made their way along the sandy street towards the main part of town.

Little looked at Morgan as they walked. "Your brother-in-law may want to be on his guard, Mr. Stokes. From the look in that scoundrel's eyes, this episode may not yet be at an end."

From the doorway of his tavern, Bill Savage maliciously eyed the departing men. He was not a particularly big man, but he was packed with more than his share of meanness. Let them think that this is over, he thought to himself. His lips curled downward as he schemed with himself. He spotted a nefarious looking character still hanging around the front of the tavern and motioned with a jerk of his head for him to come inside. The man smiled, then slowly climbed the steps, and disappeared into the tavern behind its disgruntled owner.

Later called Ellis Square, this was one of the original squares of the city. This historic section of the city was completely destroyed to make way for a parking lot in 1954, proving that our generation has no monopoly on greed and small-minded elected officials.