“And you before me.”

With a sudden clattering of wood, leather, and metal, every deputy leveled a musket at the Pikes. And for a moment, there was quiet.

The breeze rustled in the trees. A horse snorted. Another pawed the ground.

Then North said, “Seems we has a stand-off.”

And from the house came a voice: “There’ll be no stand-off. You Pike boys stand down. Nobody’ll do any dyin’ on my account.”

Will Pike turned to see his father in the doorway, and after relief poured over him, he filled with a son’s pride.

George North Pike had chosen to dress that day not in the threadbare smallclothes of a bankrupt farmer but in the uniform of a captain in the Massachusetts Artillery. It did not fit him so well as it had when the war ended, for an ague of the stomach had taken twenty pounds off his frame. But the uniform had its effect. No deputy would point a weapon at the blue-and-buff.

The elder Pike strode out of the house, as if determined to show his best face. He stopped beside his sons and said, “Sheriff, my boys think we’ve traded bad masters in Britain for worse masters in Boston.”

“Damn right,” said North, the only man still pointing a musket at anyone.

“But,” said George North Pike, “I’ll not rebel against the country I fought for.”

He lifted the musket from North’s hands, blew into the pan, and sent up a little cloud of priming powder. He tossed the gun back to his son.

Then he said, “My boys been raised right, Chauncey. They know that this is a government of laws, and laws are made by men, and men might not always be what God intended them to be, but men like you and me, we’re decent, just the same.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Captain,” said Chauncey Yates. “Now will you mount the horse we brought for you?”

George North Pike tugged at his waistcoat and looked at his sons. “Boys, the livestock been sold off, but we still have our land. So tend to it while I’m gone.”

“We’ll go with you,” said North.

“We’ll help you get settled,” added Will.

“No.” Their father mounted the horse. “I’ll not have you see me in stripes just yet. Let me try them on first.”

And the Pike brothers watched their father ride away at the head of that little group, as though he were their leader rather than their prisoner.

Then North spat and said, “Time for an uprisin’.”

THERE WAS NOT much to the town of Pelham. On the west were rocky farms, a tavern, a Congregational meetinghouse at the crossroads. Then the east-west road dipped down to a plank bridge that crossed the Swift River, a narrow stream that lived up to its name even in the driest summers. Just beyond, the road rose toward more rocky farms. But right at the bridge was Conkey’s Tavern.

That was where the Pike brothers headed come sundown.

“A man shouldn’t go to bed dry,” said North, “especially on a day like this. So let’s wet our throats and dream of wet quims, which be a bit scarce hereabouts.”

“Is that why you went wanderin’ after the war?” asked Will. “For the quims?”

“Once you’ve marched with the Continental Army, coaxin’ corn out of a rocky hillside don’t hold much attraction. And once you’ve sampled a few of the ladies who follow an army, coaxin’ a kiss from a neighbor girl ain’t quite enough to slake your thirst for somethin’… wet and juicy.”

Will thought every night about things wet and juicy, and he envied his brother’s knowledge. He had never yet inspired any of the neighbor girls to kiss him, not that there were many.

And for certain there were none at the tavern, which was full of loud voices and strong opinions and the strong smells of men who spent their days sweating hard under a hot sun. But when the Pikes entered, it was as if the stifling air were blown off by a wind, cold and ominous.

One by one, then group by group, men fell silent and turned. None had quarrel with the Pikes. But the Pikes reminded them of what they all faced—heavy taxes, a Boston government more responsive to the needs of merchants than of self-sufficient farmers, and financial ruin.

When the room was dead quiet and all eyes were on the Pikes, North announced, “Time for an uprisin’, boys.”

In an instant, they were crowding around, offering condolences and congratulations. Word of George North Pike’s pride, even in disgrace, had already spread.

Daniel Shays, who farmed a plot as bad as the Pikes’, swept two mugs of flip from the bar and gave one to each of them. “Your pa’s a good man.”

“A good man indeed,” said Doc Hines.