The townsfolk greeted Adam happily. There were more Northern sympathizers than rebel adherents in the town, and the appearance of a single Yankee soldier was sufficient to prompt a display of Stars and Stripes. The flags were hung from upper story windows or hoisted on makeshift poles. Men came to shake Adam’s hand and some pressed gifts on him; cigars or flasks of whiskey. Adam tried to refuse the gifts, but was embarrassed by his own apparent ingratitude and so he pretended to drink from one flask, then thrust a handful of the cigars into a coat pocket. He dismounted at Main Street. A dozen people were all talking at once to him, telling him how the rebels had gone, telling him how large their army had been, but admitting that the Southern forces had not laid the town to waste. They had expected to be pillaged, but the rebels had behaved themselves, even if they had insisted on paying for their suppliers with Confederate money that was next to worthless. The townsfolk wanted to know when McClellan’s army would arrive and when the rebel invasion would be whipped back out of the rest of Maryland. Adam, as he tried to cope with this blizzard of talk, noticed how some people crossed the street to avoid him and others even spat as he passed. The loyalties of Frederick, despite the display of Northern flags, was plainly confused.

Adam wanted to find the mayor or a selectman, but instead he was pressed to go into a nearby tavern and celebrate his one-man liberation of the town. Adam shook his head. He was close to the post office and he decided that the postmaster, being a federal official, might be a source of some authoritative information, and so he tied his horse’s reins to a hitching post, took Thorne’s gold from the saddlebag to protect it from thieves and, shaking off the importunate crowd, edged into the office. “Sweet Lord above,” a woman greeted his appearance, “so you got here.”

“Only me, I’m afraid,” Adam said, and asked if the postmaster was available.

“Jack!” the woman called, then gestured at the empty tables. “No business this last week,” she explained. “Guess we’ll be catching up soon enough.”

“I guess,” Adam said, then greeted the postmaster, a big, red-bearded man who emerged from a small office at the back of the building. Some townsfolk had crowded into the post office behind Adam and, to lose their ebullient company, Adam followed the postmaster to the tiny office.

The man proved less than helpful. “I can tell you there was a mighty number of the rogues,” he told Adam, “but how many?” He shrugged. “Thousands. Thousands and thousands. What did you say your name was?”

“Major Adam Faulconer.”

The postmaster stared at Adam with a look close to suspicion. “You’re a major? Not a captain?”

It seemed an odd question, but Adam confirmed his rank. “I was promoted a week ago,” he explained. He had hung Thorne’s bag of gold coins from his belt and the dull chink of the coins embarrassed him.