The situation was quite different at the elegant City Tavern, where a great blazing fire warmed the patrons to a nicety. Threading my way through the crowd of periwigged merchants and elegant officers to the Bar Room, I soon found the manager, Daniel Smith. Much to my relief, he jumped at my shy offer of fruit and drink.
“Of course, lad, I’ll take everything you’ve got—and whatever else you can bring me. Our supplies are in a sorry state, and the British officers are like to drink my cellar dry. Here, I’ll get someone to help you unload. Billy?”
At his summons, a man poked his head out from the hallway door—a man dressed in servant’s livery, who leaned on a hand-whittled cane and looked at me with eyes full of warning.
’Twas Will. As if in a dream, I followed him outside. “Will, what in blazes are you . . .”
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