The room was narrow but orderly. Shelves held ledgers, folded invoices, and small locked boxes. A table near the window was clear except for a stack of papers weighted beneath a brass candlestick.
He didn’t look at the papers too long, his eyes passing over them once. He saw numbers, initials, and a list of goods. Flour. Nails. Salt pork. Lamp oil.
Lamp oil appeared twice. Hmm. That was interesting.
The door to the inner room stood open several inches, and voices drifted through. They were too low at first to make out, so Nathaniel did what he was best at. He let his shoulders relax and tipped his head back as though bored.
The clerk glanced at him once and returned to his ledger.
“Not before Friday,” someone said from within the office.
That had to be Mr. Sloane. Nathaniel had heard his voice before. It was a smooth, dry voice, touched with a hint of irritation.
Another man answered. “The captain expected it sooner.”
Sloane huffed. “The captain expects many things. However, the tide sees fit not to consult him.”
Nathaniel kept his gaze on the opposite wall.
“Friday, then,” the second man said. “And the wagons?”
“Hidden well enough. Delayed, not lost. No matter what Rothborne fears.”
Nathaniel’s hold tightened on the brim of his hat, then loosened.Delayed, not lost.Those were the same words as before. This was getting more interesting by the minute.
“The south wharf is too exposed,” the second man said.
“It is also quiet after dark. If someone sees the transfer, then someone will learn the value of silence,” Mr. Sloane hissed.
Nathaniel’s jaw tightened just as the clerk looked up. He forced a yawn, and the clerk’s head went down again.
A chair scraped in the office. “The barrels must be marked as oil, nothing else,” Sloane said. “If a fool paints powder on the side, I’m going to throw him into the harbor myself.”
Powder.That was it. Nathaniel stared at the wall and let the words settle into place with everything else. Ships. Wagons.Crates. Harbor. A note important enough that Whitby refused to send it by ordinary courier. Important cargo hidden in barrels marked as oil.
Powder changed things. It could be moved quietly through occupied territory and used to supply soldiers, arm loyalists, or fortify positions. Or it could disappear into hands that would make life harder for every patriot between Quebec and Connecticut.
The clerk cleared his throat. “Mr. Reed.”
Nathaniel turned his head in a lazy arc. “Hmm?”
“You’re humming.”
“Was I?”
“Yes,” the clerk said dryly.
“My apologies. Waiting brings out my musical gifts.”
The clerk rolled his eyes. “No, sir. It does not.”
Nathaniel smiled. “Sorry, I’m tone-deaf, I’m afraid.”
Before the clerk could say a word, the inner door opened and Mr. Sloane emerged. He was a short man in a fine coat with powdered hair and a face he clearly worked hard to keep composed. From the look of it, maintaining that composure required a great deal of effort.
His gaze dropped to the packet in Nathaniel’s hand. “From Captain Whitby?”
“Yes, sir.” Nathaniel rose and handed it over.
