Although he’d spoken firmly rather than sharply, the girl blanched. Giving a quick nod, she hurried towards the kitchen.

Cooter must be the pot-man, Hawkwood surmised; he wondered what chastisement would be meted out when the luckless fellow attended Stagg’s summons. Evidently the bullish seaman ruled the roost hereabouts, using the tavern as a handy niche from which to conduct business and dispense justice or largesse to his acolytes. He’d probably had his eye on Hawkwood and Lawrence from the moment they’d entered and had seen them engage the pot-man in conversation.

“A toast –” Hawkwood raised his drink – “to private enterprise.”

“Ha!” Lawrence grinned. “I’ll drink to that!”

Stagg said nothing, though Hawkwood could see the man’s mind working as he reached for his whiskey. After taking a swallow, he sat in silence, toying with his glass. His hands were big and strong, well suited to hauling rope or, as was just as likely, dealing out recrimination. Finally he looked up. “How far north?”

There was a cautious silence which stretched for several seconds.

“As far as we can go,” Hawkwood replied.

“You do know there’s a war on?” Stagg said.

“So we’ve heard. Is that a problem?”

“To some.” Stagg took another swig.

But not to you, Hawkwood thought.

Stagg put down his drink but kept a hold of it. “It’ll cost you.”

“We were expecting that,” Lawrence said. “But as Mr Smith mentioned; we’d see our pilot was well … compensated.”

Stagg studied what remained of his whiskey. Then he raised his head. “How well?”

“Are we to take it you’ve changed your mind?” Hawkwood asked.

As if giving the matter further consideration, Stagg continued to stare at his glass, his lips pursed in concentration. Then he said, “Depends. How were you plannin’ on payin’?”

“Coin of the realm,” Hawkwood said. “Naturally.”

“Spanish or American?”

Hawkwood shrugged. “Either. Or guineas. Take your pick.”

At the mention of guineas, Stagg began to nibble the inside of his lower lip. Hawkwood knew then that they had him on the hook.

“Could be I’m open to persuasion,” Stagg said eventually. “Wouldn’t be a pleasure cruise, mind. Snake ain’t built to take passengers. We usually deal in … dry goods.”

“We’ve no baggage,” Lawrence said, “save what we’re carrying. We wouldn’t take up a lot of room.”

“How much persuasion?” Hawkwood asked.

“We are talking about the border, yes?”

Prevarication, Hawkwood decided, was pointless. “We are.”

Stagg held Hawkwood’s gaze. His eyes took on a nefarious glint. “Fifty dollars would cover it.”

Lawrence gasped. Fifty dollars was a monstrous sum, an outrageous sum. Hawkwood managed not to betray any reaction, but in his mind’s eye he saw a poster at the steamboat landing in Albany advertising fares to New York at seven dollars. Whitehall to the Canadian border was roughly the same distance.