Four #2
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.
Sloane broke the seal, quickly read the contents, and frowned. “Does the captain require a reply?”
“Yes, sir, he does.”
“Naturally,” Sloane growled, then turned toward the clerk. “Fetch the small writing case.”
The clerk hurried to obey.
Nathaniel remained where he was, hat in hand, his expression somber. “Shall I wait outside, sir?”
“No. This will only take a moment.”
That was generous of him. Nathaniel waited as Sloane wrote.
The second man now stood in the doorway. He was broad-faced, with sandy brows, wearing a coat a little too plain for a gentleman, yet too fine for a laborer. A wharfman, perhaps. Maybe a merchant’s agent.
“You’re Whitby’s courier,” the man stated, taking Nathaniel in.
“When Whitby pays me,” he said, and smiled.
Sloan’s pen paused. “Practical fellow.”
“I try to be.” Nathaniel met his gaze. “That’s often why they’re hired.”
Before the man could retort, Sloane folded the reply and sealed it. “See that Captain Whitby receives this before supper.”
Nathaniel accepted the packet. “Of course.”
“And Mr. Reed.”
Nathaniel paused before heading to the door.
Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “If anyone asks whether you came here today, you delivered a bill of account and nothing more.”
Nathaniel gave a small nod. “A bill of account. Understood.”
“Good.”
Nathaniel left the counting house at the same unhurried pace with which he’d entered. He mounted his horse, turned away from the wharf, and didn’t look back until he reached the corner.
Only then did he glance toward the water.
The south wharf sat beneath the gray sky. A few gulls wheeled overhead. A man carried a coil of rope across his shoulder, and two boys chased each other past a stack of crates.
After dark, Nathaniel was sure the scene would look different. Men would move barrels marked as oil and pray no one asked why oil required secrecy, wagons, and threats about silence.
He nudged his horse forward. Now he had the details Caleb needed. Friday. South Wharf. Powder in barrels. A ship tied to Whitby’s quiet arrangements. It was a message good enough to send.
Unfortunately, it was also enough to get people killed.
Anna’s quick hands came to mind, along with the careful way she lowered her eyes while listening to every word spoken around her. If she’d heard even half of what he’d heard today, she would act. He knew it.
That worried him more than Captain Whitby’s letters, Mr. Sloane’s threats, or all the powder hidden in all the barrels in Setauket.