Saltpetre. What had her world come to that she was juggling the farm, the children in all their illnesses, and the manufacture of saltpetre?
Abigail smiled, though, even as the inane comment went through her mind. John was neck deep in revolution; it was the least she could do to support him. She was cut from as tough a cloth as her husband, and would endure all that it took to break the British yoke.
"Oh John, how well matched we truly are," she whispered, before copying the directions for how to make the saltpetre down.
The women would provide.