It was almost dusk when Barnabas lifted the last crate of potatoes from the back of the wagon. He glanced up and down Second Street, made sure no one was near, and leaned close to the driver. “What else do you need?” he asked.
The man wore shaggy clothes, as if he had worked a long day, a wide brimmed hat pulled low. “Anything you can get on the river forts,” he said. “We know the attacks are coming. But we don’t know when or the strength of their forces.”
Barnabas eyed a pair of British soldiers coming toward them. “Carry this around back with the rest, and I’ll get your money,” he said loudly so the soldiers could hear.
The driver followed him down a narrow alley and they set down the last two crates by the back door to the tavern. “It’s going to get much worse,” the man warned. “Espe
