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“You have the map in mind?”

Nash tapped his temple. “I do.”

As he did most afternoons, George Kinloch followed his protectors into the dimly lit St Thomas Tavern where they would spend a few hours. He doubted Thomas à Becket would find the atmosphere of sour ale and smoke appealing. No wonder his face in the picture above the bar displayed a grimace.

George sighed, knowing he must be accepting of his guards’ choice of establishments. His cousin Grant had hired the men and, though the tavern’s atmosphere was a far cry from his farm near Dundee, it provided a respite from his small rooms at the boarding house and a refuge from Arbroath’s icy winds.

George had quickly learned the names of the men his cousin had hired, who were just now ordering ale. The tallest was the beefy Hamish whose name George easily remembered because his fists were like large hams. Hamish’s brother, Iain, a man of smaller stature, seemed content to stand in his brother’s shadow. The brains of the group appeared to be Derek, a fast-talking man with dark, intense eyes, who delighted in the rhetoric of reform which, all things considered, George never tired of hearing.

The man who caused George’s stomach to tie in knots was the hotheaded Lachlan, a Highlander from Argyll, and the only blond among them. Lachy, as his companions called him, would have been one of those men who had come to hear George’s speech carrying banners shouting, “Bread or Blood!”

Remembering those signs, George cringed. He was proud of the fact the meeting in Dundee had been conducted in an orderly manner and that there had been no disturbance of the peace of any kind.

Today, as always, he sat at the round table, the rough fabric of the brown wincey jacket and trousers, so foreign to his usual attire, chafing his skin. The ridiculous too-large brown top hat he wore, crumpled from years of abuse, had been given him to hide his distinctive baldpate, leaving only his fringe of dark hair to be seen. Regrettably, the effect rendered him a comical figure.

Soon, he hoped to return to a gentleman’s clothing. In France, where he could resume his role as a member of the gentry, he would find a better suit of clothes.

Lifting the ale that was placed before him, he took a long swallow, remembering the speech that led him to this day. He had been surprised at the thousands who had gathered that day in November to hear him speak about what could be done to alleviate the distress of the working classes.

Only later did he learn that special constables had been sworn to keep the peace as they had in Manchester. Thankfully, they had not intervened, but the government had its vengeance all the same. Guilty only of denouncing the massacre in Manchester and calling for much-needed reform, George had been charged with sedition. Sedition!

He did not have to think long before forfeiting his bail and fleeing north.

In France, he would be safe from the oppressive hand of the British government and Sidmouth’s fearmongering among the Members of Parliament, who never ventured north to witness the plight of the workers.

All George had was one man’s voice. Yet what good could he do if that voice were silenced, trapped inside the stone cage of prison walls? Or, dispatched to Botany Bay? No, he would flee now and hope to return one day when reform was no longer a dreaded word.

The conversations around him grew louder as the customers raised their voices to be heard in the crowded tavern.

Hamish raised his tankard in the semblance of a toast. “Willna be long now, Georgie lad. Ye’ll be on that ship afore ye ken it.”

“The name is Mr. Oliphant, Hamish. You must address me as Mr. Oliphant.”

Having been to the Panmure to speak to Captain Gower, Nash went to The Foundry, a tavern on Mary Street where he’d found a hearty meat pie, washing it down with ale.

As he watched the other men in the tavern, he thought about Ailie. Finding time alone with her in this dashed cold weather was proving a challenge. Either they were surrounded by people or alone in the freezing woods. Being with her without being able to touch her was proving tortuous. He had only to be near her to stir thoughts of his lips on hers.

Reminding himself he was supposed to be gathering information, he listened more attentively to the men’s conversations around him, but learned nothing substantial. Having finished his ale, he decided to brave the cold and seek another tavern.

He supposed he picked the St Thomas Tavern because the irony of the name appealed, a tavern in Presbyterian Scotland named for the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Becket might have been low-born and the rumored companion of King Henry in their earthly pursuits, but he became a martyr venerated by both Catholics and Anglicans.

No matter its namesake, the smoke-filled tavern was clearly one favored by the locals. Men of all sorts crowded up to the bar and most of the tables were filled. Nash slid into a chair at a small table against the far wall to nurse his ale while going over his conversation with the Panmure’s master in his mind.

Captain Gower had graciously allowed Nash to see his ship, his first mate remembering his prior appearance—which had actually been Robbie’s visit to the ship a few days before.

“Aye, we’ve two cabins sometimes booked by passengers, but they are both reserved for our sailing the afternoon of the twenty-sixth. We’ll return in a month’s time, weather permitting, and you can book passage then.”

The captain did not mention the passengers’ names and Nash did not ask for fear of rousing suspicion. If the shipmaster had knowingly promised one of his cabins to a fugitive from the law, he might warn Kinloch.

Nash returned his attention to the tavern’s customers, catching bits of conversation.

Five men came through the door. The proprietor waved them to the large round table that he must have been saving for them, as it was the only one unoccupied.

Once they had their ale, the men began to speak in low tones. All had dark hair save one whose eyes flashed fury beneath his fair hair. Had they but known a spy lurked in their midst, they might have spoken in a regular voice. Men who lowered their voices as if to hide their words when all around them raised theirs were, to Nash, like a tasty lure to a hungry fish.

The word “ship” coupled with the name “Georgie” rang in Nash’s ears like a ship’s bell. The man who had spoken them was a rough character, a great burly fellow in a stevedore’s plain clothing. His scarred face, thick chest and huge fists made Nash think he had seen many fights. But the man to whom he had spoken, the man he had called “Georgie”, who insisted he be called “Mr. Oliphant”, presented a puzzling figure. Nash scrutinized his common worker’s clothing and the odd hat that seemed to dwarf his fine-boned head. Despite being dressed as a commoner, his manner and speech shouted he was a gentleman.