This was an invitation not to be refused, and they entered the familiar room, glanced at the Englishman standing at the counter, and took their customary seats at a long and crudely built table. This was their territory, and they felt at ease. Without asking, the innkeeper brought each of the men one of his largest tankards, taking full advantage of the opportunity to make a maximum sale. Simon picked up his ale, glanced at the lieutenant, nodded slightly as a sign of thanks on behalf of all of them, and drank. The other men then followed suit, but no words were spoken among them. Finally, after about ten minutes of silence except for an undercurrent of soft remarks and some quiet laughter around the table, Brown said, “Pour another round.” When the big mugs were refilled and partially drained, Brown finally broke the uncomfortable silence with a polite inquiry.

“Gentlemen, how are the crops this year?” He had a low-pitched voice, quiet but clearly understood even with the modulations of someone recently from London.

Simon answered, “The corn is middling, but the tobacco don’t amount to much. A late frost killed most of the plants, and we still need some rain.”

“Yes, I observed this along the trail from Charles Town. Maybe the thunder and lightning in the west will bring some rain. Has there been any trouble around here from the Indians?”

“Not here in Orangeburg, but there was some raids west of here last March, across the Savannah in Georgia.” Simon waited to see if there would be any expression of knowledge about the region around where he thought Brown’s land might be located, but there was none.

So far, the questions were polite and predictable, but the next one put the Carolinians on guard.

“What kind of job is John Stuart doing?”