He did not offer his name, but he did not need to: the sight of the coins in the light of the fire did their work. The blacksmith put down his hammer and went to get the best horse he had.

It was a smithy like any other; it smelled of hot metal and manure and sweat. A tankard sat on a rough table next to the remains of an oat cake and a bit of dry cheese. On a nail next to the door hung a woolen cloak with well-worn boots standing beneath it, from the size of them the blacksmith's own.

He brought the roan fully saddled. A fine animal, no longer young but with strong legs and an intelligent look about her. Nathaniel offered him twice what she would have fetched in New-York, and the blacksmith sold her without hesitation.

"The boots and cape. What do ye want for them?"

The blacksmith watched him from the corner of his eye. "I've had yon boots a guid ten year. Broke in just richt, they are."

Nathaniel put another gold piece down and the man grunted in surprise. The coin disappeared into his fist.

"Anythin' else, Dominie?"

Dominie. In an hour the whole town would hear about a preacher with a pocket full of gold coin, foolish enough to spend five guineas on old boots and a worn cloak. A stranger whose Scots had an odd feel to it, like a Hielander who had learned it secondhand. It would not take Moncrieff long to put it all together, and Nathaniel did not want Moncrieff with him on this errand.

"Aye," he said. He put five more coins on the barrel. "Guns. And your silence."

The dark head swung around and the blacksmith looked straight at him for the first time. Sweaty hair plastered his temples; the left side of his face smooth and slack, the mouth dragged down at the corner. The right eye squinted. Nathaniel was glad of the shadows and his hat's broad brim.

From the tavern next door came the sound of a man singing, a strong voice, clear and true.

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?

Then let the loons beware, sir,

There's wooden walls upon our seas,

And volunteers on shore, sir:

The Nith shall rin to Corsincon,

And Criffel sink in Solway,

Ere we permit a foreign foe

On British ground to rally.

O! let us not, like snarling curs,

In wrangling be divided,

Till slap come in an unco loon

And wi' a rung decide it.

Be Britain still to Britain true,

Amang ourselves united;

But never but by British hands

Maun British wrangs be righted.

The blacksmith's mouth twisted as he looked at the gold. As much money as he would make in two years of pounding out horseshoes. Without a word he went to a cabinet in the corner and selected a ring from the clutch at his waist to turn the lock.

What Nathaniel wanted was a rifle; the best he expected was an old musket. But when the blacksmith put the bundle on the barreltop and unwrapped it, he got more than he had hoped for: a pair of holster pistols, well balanced and easy in the hand. Long brass barrels and walnut stocks, etched silver lockplates. Weapons made for a rich man and rarely fired.

Outside the noise of the crowd rose and fell like an ill wind.

"How'd you come by these?" He wanted the pistols, but he wouldn't spend even an hour in the Dumfries tollbooth for thievery.

The man shrugged. "They're no' stolen." He dropped a sack of powder and another of bullets onto the barrel and swept the coins away into the front pocket of his apron. Then he touched his temple with two fingers, a salute of kinds for Nathaniel or his coin, and turned back to the forge.

Nathaniel strapped the holster across his chest and wrapped the cloak around himself. It smelled of cheap tobacco and wet sheep, but it was thick and the wide collar stood to the brim of his hat. It would keep him warm, and with any luck it would give him some degree of anonymity.

He left Dumfries behind at a trot, glad of the night wind in his face. The road was empty and the roan was surefooted and eager. Nathaniel gave her her head, and she skirted mudholes he wouldn't have seen in the dark.

By his reckoning Mump's Hall was six miles south on the road that went down to the sea. He kept an eye out for the markers he had found during the long coach ride: a collapsed stone wall, a wooden footbridge arched like a cat's back. In the light of the moon crofters' cottages seemed to spring directly out of the ground: piles of stones stacked together without mortar, more like caves than a home a man would build for himself.

An acre of wheat, and one of oats. A hill to the west with cows as shaggy as dogs grazing by moonlight. Sheep in a huddle against a fence, hayricks, more oats. A few poor trees marked a stream running noisily into the sea, just to the east now. The smell of it was in his nose: salt and sand and marsh. He went over another bridge and at a turn in the road the tavern, finally, with a lantern burning at the door.

Nathaniel tied the horse to the hitching post and paused to take his bearings. The building itself smelled of spilled ale and roasting mutton, and with every step the boggy ground gave out a soft belch and the stench of rotting greenery.

He pushed open the door.

In the dim light of a smoky fire men bent their heads together over tankards. Some of them looked to be farmers, but most had tarry hands and a sea squint. A few played cards in the farthest corner, but he could make out nothing familiar about any of them.

A man who sat with his bare feet on the hearthstones let out a long stream of tobacco juice into the flames. "Mump!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Custom for ye, man!"

The tavernkeeper came sideways through a low door at the back of the room. He was no taller than a boy of ten, but as wide around as a keg-- a cork of a man, bobbing along on feet too small to bear his weight. His hair was clubbed but his beard flowed and twisted, black and gray to his waist. Under his arm he carried a bottle.