by Jim DeFelice
"A-hah! And what is this!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as if introducing the last piece of invented evidence before an Admiralty court.
As Jake knew from experience, however, the letter proved to be a pass from General Howe himself, admitting van Clynne into New York City. It was, like every other paper in the Dutchman's pockets, forged, but neither Busch nor the others had any way of knowing that.
"We'll have to let him go," said the captain, after examining the pass. "But we'll keep the salt and sugar. If he's truly a loyal citizen, he shouldn't mind donating it to the cause of king and country. General Howe won't miss it."
Van Clynne stifled his protest with great difficulty.
"I'd like his horse as well," said one of the Tories, who was riding a nag older than several of the surrounding hills. "It's a fine-looking animal."
"We can't just take a man's horse," said Captain Busch.
"Perhaps he'll donate it," suggested Jake, walking back to van Clynne. He was between the Dutchman and the rest of the party, and they could not see the wink he gave him.
Whether van Clynne actually saw this signal or not, he wasn't about to give up his horse voluntarily. "That animal has been in my family for many years," he objected, wincing as he prepared for another blow from his erstwhile friend.
"Meet me on the road just above Pine's Bridge tonight. Wait for me," whispered Jake under his breath, adding in a louder voice, "Perhaps a little close negotiation will help you arrive at a reasonable price."
"Leave off, Smith," commanded Busch. "You've no right to hit him. He has a legal pass, however he's obtained it. He can keep his horse. We'll borrow his ox and wagon — Sergeant, prepare a receipt." Busch turned toward van Clynne, who was still gathering his breath. "It can be redeemed from the quartermaster corps in New York City when you arrive there. You have my signature upon it. Tell me, have you seen a tall man traveling by himself in a brown coat, with fine black boots and a fresh Quaker hat?"
"Sir," said van Clynne weakly, "you describe half the inhabitants of the country."
"Describe your horse to him, Smith," directed Busch.
"Black, a bit wobbly but a faithful animal, nonetheless. Five years old, if a day." A nearly imperceptible shake of his head gave van Clynne his answer.
"I have seen neither," said the Dutchman. "Or I have seen them all — gentlemen, I assure you, the description could be applied to half the equine population of the colony, if not the continent."
"Untie him and let us be gone," commanded Busch.
"Yes, sir." Jake reached into his belt for his elk-handled knife and flashed it before the Dutchman's face before slicing his ropes. "Don't fail me," he whispered. "Have Old Put put the troops guarding the chain on alert."
"I will do nothing of the sort!" yelled van Clynne, looking back to Busch. "I would sooner kiss my horse than lick your boots!"
The whole company laughed and applauded as Jake gave the Dutchman one last kick and returned to his horse. Even Busch smiled as they rode off in train. Van Clynne was left to cough the dust out of his lungs and clear his eyes, which he did to the accompaniment of a loud chorus of Dutch oaths.
The bruises Jake administered were real enough, and if van Clynne had suffered far worse during his career, still it grated him that these had been inflicted by a supposed friend and ally. Indeed, it seemed inconceivable that a true patriot could strike another — perhaps van Clynne had misjudged his companion's allegiance after all.
As that would have involved a sizeable flaw on his part — indeed, it would be such a gross mistake in judgment that it was inconceivable any Dutchman could make it — van Clynne quickly dismissed it.
He straightened his coat and reviewed his situation. Jake had given him two specific tasks — the meeting, which was not to take place until tonight, and alerting General Putman. He had said nothing in regard to the stolen salt, nor his prior assignment.
Obviously, the job of journeying to Schuyler was now completely superseded, as there would be no way of reaching Albany and returning before evening.
But on the other hand, his compatriot — commander, if he insisted — would certainly realize that the two assignments, no matter how important, would not take up much time for an able operative like van Clynne; one was not even to be undertaken until an undetermined hour late tonight. This could only mean that the Dutchman was to use his energies to accomplish other tasks vital to the Cause. Obviously, Jake had felt it self-evident and unnecessary to mention.
No mission could be more vital than the retrieval of his salt, destined for the very general whom he was supposed to now contact. Not only was it critical to the survival of Putnam's men; there was no telling how it might inspire the Tories if left in their possession.
But how to arrive at a plan which combined its liberation and union with Putnam, without exposing his comrade? Van Clynne sighed deeply and scratched his beard, as he always did in such crises. Then he followed the next logical step — he turned his horse back in search of an inn, where a few strong whiffs of stout would prepare his mind for the job ahead.
Chapter Twelve
Wherein, Jake concocts a plan to spoil the Tory raid on Salem.
Jake undoubtedly would have had a different view on the direction van Clynne should take. Fortunately for the squire, he was not available for consultation. Indeed, Jake's thoughts were devoted exclusively to the Tories he was riding with, and their mission of harrying Salem.
He had not told van Clynne to have Old Put send men there because he suspected it might be a diversion, though its precise role in any overall scheme was still unclear. Nonetheless, even a diversion could injure Americans, and as Jake rode he searched his mind for some way of sabotaging the operation without drawing too much attention to himself, or damaging his chances at discovering any plans to attack the chain.
The rangers proceeded east in high spirits, for there is nothing like an early and easy victory to set the tone for a campaign. Busch could not have arranged a better mood-setter than the Dutchman, so easily bested; the men practically sang to each other as they rode.
Jake noted that their path had been carefully scouted and selected; though nominally in patriot territory, they had yet to come across a patrol or even find a straggler foraging for food. The "liberated" ox and wagon slowed their progress, but their commander did not seem upset by the pace, and Jake realized as they pulled down the lane toward a single farmhouse in a hollow that they must be well ahead of whatever schedule Busch had set. Salem was now only a few miles away; even with the wagon, it would take less than an hour to reach.
No one came from the small house when they pulled up outside. Busch nodded at the sergeant, who signaled to two nearby men and began a perfunctory search of the property.
"We'll rest here a while," Busch told Jake. "This has gone easier than I'd hoped. You were brave back there, Smith; the Dutchman might have had a weapon." "Something about him told me I didn't have to worry." "Appearances can be deceiving." The American agent found it hard to disagree.
"Come into the house with me." Busch's words had the sharp cut of a command issued under fire — a bit too strong, it seemed, for the circumstances. Jake immediately feared the captain had overheard his whispered remarks to van Clynne.
Great is the power of imagination under the press of danger; left to its own devices it can manufacture a nation of demons and devils from a few chance words or the turn of a phrase. The only antidote is sheer willpower — though a loaded pocket pistol does not hurt, and Jake secreted his up his green-coated sleeve as he walked up the path of raked gravel behind Busch.
If it was a trap, it was an exceedingly pleasant one. The stone-faced room had been freshly cleaned, with a fine layer of sand raked over the floorboards in a swirling pattern. A Franklin stove stood in the corner, all fired up. A pot of water sat on the iron top, just a degree or two short of a full boil. The only difficulty Jake faced was the room's low ceiling-he had to stand with a slight bend to keep from knocking hi
s helmeted head on the exposed joists.
"Our farmer friend arranged to be away this morning, in case some rebel should find us," explained Busch. "But he saw to our needs just the same. There's feed for the horses in the barn; the troop will rest here an hour or two before proceeding." Jake nodded, still unsure whether he was being tested. "When I found you at the inn, you thought you were completely without friends in this country, didn't you?" "It seemed the entire territory turned against the king."
"Hardly." Busch inspected the pot and then stoked the fire inside the stove. "No more than a quarter of these people have ever been firm rebels. I would say a half of the continent's inhabitants would go either way. That is our great problem — the neutrals." "Yes, sir." Busch smiled at him. "There's no need to be so formal when we're alone. I told you, I regard you as my brother." "That's kind, sir." Busch laughed. "You're always on your guard, Smith."
"I haven't always been," said Jake. He walked around the room as if looking for a place where he could fit his head without stooping, and tucked the pocket pistol discreetly into the side of his belt when the Tory wasn't looking.
"You're a man of learning, I can tell," offered Busch. "You're not really a farmer."
"I am a farmer in that I owned a farm. But my family sent me to England to school. I attended Oxford."
This was actually true, as was Jake's subsequent admission that he had spent much of his time at school not at school. His education was not so wasted as he implied — indeed, he'd been among the top students — but his bashful admission brought a smile to Busch's lips.
"I dreamed of going to Oxford," said the Tory captain. "I dreamed of going to England. But only to visit," he added quickly. "My home is here and I'll fight to the death to protect it. As will you." Jake nodded. "I can see certain things in men," said Busch. "Tell me, can you swim?" "Yes." "Good." Busch took a canister from a nearby shelf and began fussing with some cups. There was not much tea. "Are we taking time off for a swimming competition?" "Not necessarily." Jake suppressed an urge to grab the Tory and shake the details out of him.
"You must forgive me, Smith; it is a strong practice of mine to be careful with information; there are spies everywhere. You've impressed me, though — I'm sure you will be an officer yourself before long, once our commanders find out your background and you have a chance to show your mettle." "I'm flattered." "You're obviously capable, and of good birth." "My mother was indentured."
Busch shrugged off the vague retort — it happened also to be true, as is documented elsewhere — and concentrated on preparing the drinks. When the tea was brewed, he handed his subordinate a cup. This unstated ceremony was an eloquent way of forming a bond with a man, Jake realized, a gesture intended to build confidence.
"I have long needed someone with me whom I can trust," said Busch as he sipped his tea. "Someone who can think on his feet. Drink up, man. It's not as hot as it looks."
Jake had not let a single sip of tea pass his lips since he'd landed in Boston more than two years before, and he did not intend to do so now. Ever since the Tea Party, the drink had become the symbol of all he hated.
In truth, few Americans, even firm patriots, would go to the lengths he did, especially in these circumstances. But a principle is a principle — a cough welled in his throat just as he brought the cup to his lips, and his lungs exploded in a burst that sent the liquid sailing across the floor. The choking fit was so strong his helmet fell off into his tea cup, sending the contents as well as the porcelain onto the sandy floorboards.
"Went down — went the wrong way," Jake gasped. An epileptic could not have had a more convincing fit. He nodded weakly when Busch suggested he should get some air.
Jake was just opening the door when he felt Busch's light but firm touch stop him. It was the same grasp he had felt on the porch at Prisco's, and while he was not afraid of the Tory, still a shiver ran through Jake's body as he turned to face him. "You and I are not riding with the others. Our mission will be more perilous — are you prepared for it?" Jake nodded. "I have a few more items to attend to," said the captain. "We'll ride in a half hour, no more. Smith — "
Jake's eyes were once again caught in the Tory captain's powerful gaze. What a shame it was this man was on the wrong side of the war. "Sir?" "You won't fail me." "No," managed the patriot, having more difficulty with this lie than many longer ones. Busch nodded, silently dismissing him.
The same imagination that had created ambushes in the house was now double-timed into more constructive work. If Fortune had smiled on Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs by having Busch decide to take him along on the true mission back at the river, and maybe the chain — why else would he have asked if he could swim? — Jake still hoped to prevent the rest of the rangers from striking the unguarded town.
Being the son of an apothecary, the patriot spy had grown up on a wide variety of cures and potions. He was particularly fond of sleeping bombs, as the Gibbs's family pets — and a number of British soldiers — could attest. But those were impractical here for any number of reasons, starting with the fact that the necessary ingredients were lacking.
His studies had acquainted him with a variety of herbs and other natural medicines, however, and he began scouring the nearby woods for some ingredient that would incapacitate the troop. A few pieces of Fly Agaric mushrooms placed in their canteens would do the job very nicely — the plant produced an effect not unlike exceedingly strong rum. Though its results were variable, it could generally be counted on to intoxicate its victims for six or seven hours. It would also repel any horseflies in the vicinity.
Jake walked behind the house and down a gentle hillside leading into the woods, looking for the mushrooms. One of the homestead's previous occupants had been a midwife, and plenty of medicinal plants tripped at his heels — some peppermint, a few spearmint, even a creeping strawberry plant — but no mushrooms. Undoubtedly, van Clynne would have explained this via some dissertation on the natural order of things and one of his Dutchman's Rules of the Cosmic Arrangement: whatever you want most at hand is always furthest away, until you don't want it any more.
Jake passed the remains of an old foundation and felt his feet sinking in mud. The brush here became thicker, and as he surveyed the margins of the swamp he realized that the short, ground-covering shrubs that ran back up the hillside might serve his purpose as well as any mushroom. For the plants and their spiky green leaves appeared to be dog mercury, a potent herb common enough in Europe but only an occasional import to America. A few sniffs of their sour odor was enough to confirm his find; Jake took out his knife and stripped several handfuls of the leaves into his pockets.
Dog mercury could induce severe gastric distress if ingested; it had the added advantage of waiting a good hour or so before erupting. Unfortunately, it had to be eaten fresh, as the poison was easily diluted — and its strong smell tended to warn people away from it. People yes, but not necessarily horses, so long as he could mix it with something that lessened the bitter taste. Like a few mint leaves and some sugar. "What are you doing, Smith?"
"Just helping myself to a cone of the rebel's sugar," said Jake as innocently as possible when the sergeant caught him in the barn a few minutes later.
"I got m'eye on you," said the man. He emphasized his point by spitting toward Jake's feet.
Jake broke off a piece of the sugar cone and handed it to the man. His stubby cheek turned down with the force of his frown, but he accepted the peace offering nonetheless. "You served during the French and Indian War, I'd wager," suggested Jake. "Sayin' I'm old?" "No, sir. Not at all."
"Hmmphh." The piece of sugar was nearly as big as the sergeant's fist, but he shoved the entire hunk into his mouth like a five-year-old would.
Jake smiled and licked at his own piece. He needed privacy to finish mixing the herb with the sugar and mint, and then slip it into the horses' feed, but the sergeant didn't offer to leave. Lewis swished the sugar around in his mouth, as if he were chewing an overlarge piece of b
arley candy. Finally, he swallowed it with a gulp.
"Want some more?" offered Jake.
The sergeant frowned, then took the rest of his cone from him.
Jake shrugged and reached back into the wagon for another. Lewis grabbed his coat to stop him. "That's enough, now. The captain has plans for this. Say, what do ya have in yer pockets, Smith?"
"A few leaves for a tea," said Jake. "Want some?"
"What's this then, sassafras?"
"It's Indian pine," said Jake, inventing a new species on the spot. "It aids digestion. I have a problem with gas, and learned this cure from an old Algonquin woman. I take a bit every day."
"I've the same problem," said the sergeant, taking a new attitude toward the trooper.
Jake graciously offered to share some in a tea with the sergeant, if he would fetch the water while the leaves were prepared. In the time it took the man to round up a pail and find the well, Jake had mixed the batch and fed two-thirds of the horses, who were suspicious but glad enough of the sugar. He left his own horse alone, naturally, and was just debating whether to feed Busch's when he heard the door open.
"Captain says yer to leave directly with him," declared the sergeant. "Take his horse to him."
"I'll leave this for you then," said Jake, pointing to the small pile of leaves on the bench. "Drop them straight into the water." The sergeant picked a few up and made a face. "They smell like farts." "Have you studied the theory of humors and fluids, Sergeant Lewis?" "What humors?"
"The general idea is that like will repel like." Jake's science was accurate enough, though it could not be applied here. "The smell is what makes them effective. To tell you the truth — if you really want relief, eat them raw."
"Raw?"
