He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jerkin. "What'll it be?"

Nathaniel raised his voice, although the room was dead quiet. "A word."

"Oh-ho," said the little man, the round cheeks flushed. "Did ye hear, lads? It's a word he's wantin'. A word." He drew himself up to his full height as he came toward Nathaniel. "At Mump's Ha' ye'll get barley-broo, sae lang as ye can pay for it. There's a subscription library doon the road in Dumfries, gin it's words ye want."

It wouldn't be wise to flash gold guineas in a room full of men who made their living smuggling, and he had only a few pounds in silver coin that he did not like to throw away. But there was no help for it: Nathaniel knew these men would not talk unless he drank with them.

"Whisky, then."

The little man's expression softened. "Aye, whisky. There's nae better road tae start a conversation."

He hopped up onto a stool and gestured with an open palm for Nathaniel to take the one next to him. When the long bottle under his arm had been uncorked and the whisky had been poured, Nathaniel tipped it in one blazing stream down his throat. Satisfied, the tavernkeeper climbed back down off his stool and stood there chewing thoughtfully on a twist of beard.

"Dandie Mump is ma name. And ye are?"

Nathaniel considered. He could not pass himself off as a Scot for long here, and still he was not foolish enough to forget Moncrieff's warnings about the Campbells. "I'm American. Came off the Isis this morning," he said.

"The Isis!"

He might have offered to slit their throats for the reaction he got. Stools screeched as men came to their feet.

Mump narrowed his eyes at him. "Ye came aff yon great merchantman sittin' there in the firth?"

Nathaniel did not like the way the room was closing around him, but he kept his expression even. He nodded. "I did."

From the back of the crowd a tall man with a lump of tobacco in his cheek said, "Is it true that there's typhoid on board?"

Nathaniel jerked in surprise. "It is not. When I left her this morning there wasn't a sick man on the Isis. Who speaks of typhoid?"

Mump poured more whisky in Nathaniel's cup, and then drank it himself. "The captain willna allow the crew on land because o' the typhoid, so we've heard."

"Ma Nan's brither Charlie is on the Isis," said a man at Nathaniel's elbow. He was of middle years, windburned and gaunt. He smelled of fish and tar and weariness and his hands trembled a little. "She's aye worrit for him. Do ye ken the lad?"

"A cabin boy?" Nathaniel asked. "About twelve, fair-haired?"

"Aye, that's oor Charlie Grieve. Did ye see him this morn?"

"I did," said Nathaniel. "And he was healthy and looking forward to seeing his folks."

There was a thick muttering among the men, questions asked that had no answers. And Nathaniel could not help them: on the face of it, it made no sense for Pickering to keep the crew on board. But then there was Moncrieff, who had proved himself capable of worse things. He looked at the sailors gathered round, and they looked back at him with faces closed or curious. All of them waiting for word of sons or brothers or nephews on the Isis, and fearing the worst.

"Sam Lun, ye'd best get ye hame tae Nancy," said Mump. "The puir lass could use same guid tidings. Ye've lost Mungo, but Charlie will be hame soon."

Nathaniel's head came up with a snap. "What do you know about Mungo?"

Mump threw back his head to look at Nathaniel down the long slope of his nose. "The Osiris gaed doon near the Grand Banks," he said gruffly. "Mungo Grieve was amang the crew."

But he didn't die with the rest of them, Nathaniel thought. Why don't you know that as well?

"How is it that ye ken Mungo?" asked Sam Lun, suspicion clear on his face.

"He was brought on board after the French sunk the Osiris," Nathaniel said, and quickly, before hope could take root in the man's thin face: "Mungo died of a fever after he came on board. But his brother was with him, and he slipped away quiet."

Sam Lun blinked twice, his eyes suddenly red rimmed. "Is that true? It wad be a comfort tae ma Nan, tae ken that the lad died easy."

"It's true," Nathaniel said. "I swear it."

There was a little silence in the room, broken only by the sound of the fire in the hearth. Finally Mump let out a great sigh.

"Weel, then. And what brings ye tae ma door, besides sad tidings?"

"I'm looking for Mac Stoker or any man of his crew."

The friendly expression on Dandie Mump's round face melted away. "Mac Stoker, is it? And why do ye think ye'll find that auld whoremaster here?"

"Because only somebody who was on the Jackdaw could tell you what happened to the Osiris." Nathaniel spoke to Mump, but he watched the room. All around him men were exchanging glances he did not like, and did not know how to read.

"I mean Stoker no harm," he said.

One of the cardplayers in the corner spoke up for the first time. "That's a pity," he said, pushing himself up from the table. "I masel' wad like naethin' better than tae see the man deid."

Mump scowled. "Haud yer tongue, Jock Bleek."

"And why should I haud ma tongue, Dandie? Is it no' true that Stoker left his crew tae the dragoons so he could chase after a woman?"