Windsor, Vermont

Mr. Randolph was not usually one to allow the grumbling of his stomach to go on for very long without a response. He willed his hunger into the back of his consciousness, however, due to the pressing nature of committing his thoughts to writing—writing that he would pass on to his partner for additional safekeeping.

> Dear Mr. Page,

>

> I write to you hastily at present and hope that you will excuse whatever effects such urgency may have on the finished product. In my previous letter I alluded to some of the curious behavior of some of the Vermonters close to the center of power. I believe that I have now discovered the motivation behind some of that odd behavior and, certainly, a significant factor in forestalling progress between the Confederation and Vermont.

>

> I have discovered that members of Vermont’s government have been taking large payments in exchange for their opposition to Vermont’s joining with the rest of the American states. Men of almost no means whatsoever have become quite wealthy indeed and seem to owe their prosperity to nothing other than their proximity to other men of influence. I have not yet discovered the origin of these bribes, but that is a deficiency I mean to repair as quickly as possible. Please put this letter with my other private papers for safekeeping and as I gather further information I will send it to you for the same purpose. Though you may not be able to offer any help before the crisis comes to the point of action, I am sure you understand how important it is to me to preserve my thoughts as they come to me. I am sure you carry on admirably with the law practice and hope that my work here in the north will not detain me any longer than absolutely necessary.

>

> Kind regards,

>

> Joseph Randolph, Esq.

Mr. Randolph folded the letter, but left it unsealed for the time being. The important thing had been to put pen to paper and, having done so, he must now capitulate to his pangs of hunger. No midday meal was served at his lodging house and the evening meal would be served only several hours hence. He decided to make the short walk to Browne’s Tavern, one of only a handful of such taverns in town. This one, however, came with the recommendation of all the local men with whom he had interacted.

He carefully made his way down the outside staircase that led around the back of the house and up to his room. What it lacked in luxury was made up for in privacy, something Mr. Randolph had always valued more than the ability to appear wealthy to others. Having found the tavern and located a well-placed table near the back he found himself unusually comfortable. He felt almost as if he were only a few blocks away from his house in Richmond, where one of his dearest friends might walk in at any moment.

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The simple stew and dark brown ale sated his appetite quickly and fully. Despite having accomplished his purpose, he found himself lingering, picking up stray pieces of nearby conversations, and soaking in the welcoming atmosphere. He ordered another mug of ale—something he rarely did—and sipped it a little bit at a time.

“Pardon me, sir,” came a deep voice from behind him. “Do you mind if I sit and drink here? I usually sit at this table, but since I don’t recognize you, I take it you must not be from around here.”

Mr. Randolph gestured to the other chair at the table and the man sat down, placing his own mug of beer in front of him. Once seated, he raised the mug to his lips and took several healthy gulps, draining half of his contents. He wiped his lips on his sleeve and looked over at Mr. Randolph in a friendly way, but he was also clearly studying Mr. Randolph’s face.

“You don’t live here—I’m sure of that,” he said, “but I’ve seen you before. Where could it be?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Randolph. “I apologize if we have met, but I don’t believe I recognize your face. What did you say your name was?”

Instead of answering, the man snapped his fingers. “That’s it! I saw you with that group of men going to meet with the president. A peace delegation or something, right?”

“Something like that, yes. Have you been admitted to any of the meetings?”

Judging by the working man’s clothes the stranger wore, Mr. Randolph thought not, but he judged it impolite to say so.

“No. I haven’t been, but I make deliveries there on the regular. Must’ve seen you all going in and out a few times.”

“You’re very observant, then.”

After that the men made small talk. The man seemed relatively uninterested in any kind of negotiations that might have been going on. His world revolved around making his milk and cheese deliveries. He also seemed quite keen on rabbit hunting and trapping, a topic that—when explained by a man like this who had no meager level of expertise—actually held Mr. Randolph’s interest much longer than he ever would have thought before. A third mug of ale made its way to the table and before Mr. Randolph realized it, the sky had grown almost dark outside.

“It’s been a most pleasant evening,” he told the stranger. “I thank you for the company, but I must head back to my lodgings for the night.”

“You sure you won’t stay and have one more?” the man asked as he gestured to the assembled mugs that remained on the table.

“I’m afraid not, my friend. You have a few years on me, so please stay and enjoy another on my behalf, but I must abstain from any further drinking this evening.”

As he stood, Mr. Randolph felt just how true his last statement had been. He knew, unfortunately, what it was to be drunk, and this was not that feeling. He should have allowed his usual temperance to control him, however. He had adamantly refused to purchase a cane for himself—despite Georgiana’s insistent urging—and now he felt the foolishness of his obstinance.

Arriving at the lodging house, Mr. Randolph looked with slight dread up the stairs. He would have to put the railing to the test, he concluded. With less difficulty than he anticipated, he made his way to the top of the stairs, and felt his age fully. Almost out of breath, he leaned over, placing his hands on his knees, and saw two large workingman’s boots step out of the shadows. He looked up just in time to recognize the face of the man from Browne’s Tavern, then felt a hard shove to his chest. As if in slow motion, he felt his feet lose their grip on the landing. The last memory before he blacked out was of feeling as if he were as light as a feather which had just fallen from a bird’s wing and was just beginning to float gently to the ground.