The silver bullet ps-1

by Jim DeFelice

  “ You don’t mind that we ride with you?” Jake asked innocently, rubbing it in.

  “ I do mind, indeed.”

  “ Now, now, be more congenial to your fellow travelers,” said Van Clynne. “You never know when you might need a friend. We may meet up with shady fellows along the way.”

  “ I already have.”

  “ He’s going to White Plaines, as we are,” van Clynne told Jake. “He has a brother there who owes him money, and he’s going to collect it. A fool’s mission, if you ask me. Never lend money to a relative; the best that can happen is they will forget to pay you back.”

  Jake ignored the Dutchman. “I recall you telling me your relatives lived there,” he told Herstraw. “Did you buy that farmer’s horse in Rhinebeck?”

  “ Twenty pounds,” answered van Clynne. “Can you imagine?”

  “ A good buy,” answered Jake, trying to signal with his eyes that van Clynne should shut his mouth.

  “ Oh, no. If I were arranging it, believe me, I could have gotten it for half. Yes, it’s a fine horse, but mares are always worth less.”

  A small patrol from the garrison that commanded the pass in the hills below the village stopped them and briefly asked their business. The soldiers were quickly satisfied and the travelers resumed their journey. Jake let Herstraw accelerate at first, gaining a bit of a lead, then prodded his mount to catch up. The horse seemed glad — the animal was positively a wonder, made to run very fast and undoubtedly for days on end. It did not like to proceed at anything less than full gallop, and was constantly urging its master on.

  Surveying the British messenger, Jake concluded that the silver bullet was probably sitting in the bottom of the hunting bag Herstraw had slung over his shoulder. IT would be a simple matter to wait for an unguarded moment, take the bag and exchange the bullet. All he had to do now was wait.

  And wait and wait, as Herstraw neither stopped nor dropped his guard while they rode south as a moderate pace. Van Clynne filled the time by haranguing them with a theory that the water in this area made for a very good ale, if boiled and then allowed to sit overnight in a tin tub.

  “ You’re wondering why tin, no doubt?” said van Clynne.

  “ I’m not wondering about anything,” said Herstraw. “Except how to survive your prattle.”

  “ Tut tut,” said van Clynne generously, proceeding to explain the relation of “flavor noodles” in the otherwise pure water and the magnetism of the metal vessel.

  The land here was in American hands, being still many miles north of the British lines at New York City, but that hardly made it safe from attack. Their superiority on water gave the British a mobility that was difficult to combat.

  The Americans had undertaken a massive defensive measure to block off the Hudson River to British ships, stretching a long chain across the Hudson at a bend just north of Peekskill. An assaulting army would have not only the chain to contend with, but a series of forts and artillery batteries that would make the narrows treacherous going.

  Nonetheless, Jake’s tactical eye saw many gaps in the defenses. And while the fact that no patrol challenged them on the road southeast of Peekskill meant their cover stories wouldn’t be put to a test, it also meant that British spies and rangers would have an easy time getting in and out of the area.

  Peekskill had, in fact, been attacked twice this past year, once in February and again in March; both assaults had done real damage. The British had occupied the village during the last raid, and there were some who said the redcoats’ retreat was due to whim, not fear. The HMS Dependence was lurking offshore somewhere, and farther south, Dobbs Ferry was an effective British stronghold.

  One thing Jake had to admit, the British messenger had gall as well as courage. He was living up to his boast to Burgoyne, traveling right through the heart of patriot country. Jake watched him carefully, half expecting a sudden bolt towards Dobbs Ferry for a rendezvous.

  “ You’re always brooding, sir, just staring into space,” van Clynne said to Herstraw as they rode. “Why are you so moody?”

  “ I’m not,” he said, his response so gloomy that it contradicted itself

  But Jake realized the man wasn’t staring into space; instead, he was examining the defenses. Now here was a messenger with ambition — he would have a full report for General Howe once he arrived in New York. No wonder he went toward White Plains instead of seeking a safer route along the river.

  Jake’s apothecary studied had taught him about the root of a certain tree that could induce amnesia. Such a potion would come in handy now — he could slip it into Herstraw’s drink and wipe out his knowledge of the American defenses.

  Of course, there was no way to get the root cure here, as it grew only on a small island south of the Cape of Good Hope in Africa. But thinking of it led Jake to settle on a potion that would help him accomplish his more immediate and important aim of switching bullets — sleeping powder. He could mix a particularly potent version from some simple ingredients, assuming he could find an apothecary shop along the way, as well as a reason to go into it.

  A feigned stomach ache was just the thing. He began moaning straight away, and as they passed through a small village, excused himself to find a cure. His most difficult task was convincing van Clynne to continue on without him. A series of clandestine hand signals did not work, nor did a hissed warning have much positive effect. Finally, he had to beat the Dutchman’s horse away, ordering him in a threatening whisper to catch up to Herstraw and not let him out of sight.

  The apothecary bought supplies through the Gibbs family firm, charging twice the recommended markup — which itself was nearly ten times his purchase price. The result of all this free enterprise was that Jake paid forty dollars for some powders that cost, at mostly thirty cents at their source. The purchase greatly depleted his supply of paper money, the man noticed Jake’s annoyed countenance when he announced the price, and he told Jake to be glad he still took Continental money.

  At least the man was selling unadulterated medicines, and seemed to know his trade, Jake noted, for he warned against inadvertently mixing the potions, which ostensibly were for ptomaine poisoning, warts, and hay fever, along with a potion that occasionally cured love sickness. “If they meet each other, even for an instant, you’ll fall dead asleep,” said the druggist.

  Jake nodded solemnly, saving his smile for outside. The smile remained on his face for more than a mile down the road, until he came suddenly to a fork. Signs on both branches claimed each the best way to White Plains.

  But here van Clynne proved his resourcefulness as well as his usefulness. He had pitched his pocketknife, easily identified by the inscribed initials, on the side of the proper road. Jake scooped it up and soon rejoined them.

  Herstraw seemed almost relieved to see him — the Dutchman now had someone else to talk at. Which he did, practically nonstop, through lunch and for the rest of the day. All the while, Herstraw kept his bag right at his chest, and Jake could find no opportunity to inspect it.

  The sun was already gliding toward the trees and they were still north of White Plains, despite their steady pace. This was not a good area to travel through during dusk, let alone at night. On the one hand, it was unsurpassed in beauty, running through the foothills that rose from the Hudson. A hundred-plus years of colonization had not succeeded in erasing its wild nature; the trio passed under the watchful eyes of a hawk, heard the cries of a lone owl, and even saw a herd of deer run through the nearby forest.

  But Nature’s wildness brought out something evil in the men who lived here. A traveler sticking to the main road during daylight was safe enough, but venture along some secondary route and you were ten times as likely to meet a bandit as a friend. The war had done more than scramble allegiances; it had weakened codes of conscience and morality, making outlaws of men who just a few years ago would have been working at forges or farms. Some were driven to banditry by necessity, their lands having been burnt or their places of bu
siness destroyed, but there were many with less mitigating circumstances.

  The three travelers readied their weapons in case they were attacked. Jake was careful to keep the ruby-hilted knife under his jacket — while Herstraw might not know its special significance, Jake didn’t want to test him.

  They were not quite to Young’s Corners when Herstraw decided he could go no farther, and pulled off at a large “ordinary” or inn along the road. Jake and van Clynne allowed themselves to be guided by his movements; though he sneered, the upper-class English gentleman in him expected nothing less.

  A figure at the edge of the road nodded in their direction as they stopped. Herstraw, as charming as ever, ignored the man’s greeting. Van Clynne made up for his companion’s deficit in manners by strolling over for a chat that began with a complaint about how darkness was no longer as dark as it once was.

  Following Herstraw inside, Jake watched the care with which he placed his hunting sack next to his chair and hooked its strap around the leg. He might just as well have pasted a sign around it, saying the bullet was there. The American took a seat nearby, waiting to pounce as soon as Herstraw left the room.

  “ Strange fellow,” complained van Clynne, entering the room presently. “Claimed to have business! No time to talk.”

  “ What a surprise,” said Jake.

  “ At least he agreed with me about the lack of shine in the stars.”

  It was a long-accepted if unwritten law that the inns throughout New York must have come equipped with a pretty young woman to soothe travelers’ woes. This inn proved the rule unfortunately by being an exception — to call the woman who waited on them in the great room around the small fire unattractive was to call a mountain lion a house cat. The parts of her narrow figure seemed ill-acquainted with each other. The main distinguishing mark of her face was a nose that could have been aligned properly only by being broken in three places. She’s suffered the pox as a child; the disease had left scars the size of large coins in the corners of her eyes. Her teeth were ragged, with one missing toward either side.

  How then to explain van Clynne’s rising color when he saw her? Or the fact that when she offered to soothe his feet in some salts, he became so flustered he seemed close to fainting?

  “ Is she not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” van Clynne whispered as she left the room to fetch a basin.

  Jake wiped the top of his lip, partly in amazement, mostly to keep from laughing out loud. “Is she Dutch?”

  “ Who cares?”

  Van Clynne sat back in his seat, eyes watering as the maid — a guess, but surely no proof is needed on that account — undid the thick buckles on his shoes and reached up to his calf to unfurl his stockings. The water in the basin literally hissed when he put his foot in.

  The women, with a gentle smile that would have scared a full flock of grizzled vultures, told van Clynne that he could call her Jane. She began rubbing his toes with a cloth, caressing each stubby little piglet as if it were a newborn fresh from its mother.

  Herstraw, meanwhile, had procured himself a rum and taken out a small pipe for a smoke. He sat stiffly upright in the Windsor-style chair, his eyes seemingly unfocused but undoubtedly examining everything in the room. The heavy beams absorbed what little light the fire and a few candles on the wall gave off; the low-ceilinged room was nearly as dark as a dungeon.

  The inn’s only other patrons were a pair of older gentlemen in the corner bent over a checkerboard. They pushed their pieces forward with quick, sharp moves in rapid succession, as if playing out a game they had gone through many times before.

  The innkeeper, a jolly bald-headed fellow by the name of Prisco, made the rounds with a pitcher of malt beer, glancing to make sure all cups were filled. He raised an eyebrow when he swathe girl working over van Clynne’s feet.

  “ My niece,” he said to Jake, inspecting his mug. “She seems to have taken a shine to your friend.”

  “ It appears mutual.”

  The man winked at him. “I was recently made a justice of the peace, so a union could be quickly arranged.”

  “ You’d have to take that up with Claus.”

  “ And where are you bound, sir?” asked the keeper.

  “ Down the road a bit.” Jake overemphasized his discomfort for Herstraw’s benefit. “I have some family business to attend to. A dead brother, killed by the Indians in the north.”

  “ Sorry to hear,” said Prisco. “These are dangerous days.”

  “ They are indeed.”

  Jake sat back with some satisfaction. In a few hours he would make the exchange and set off for Albany. Once there, a few sips of wine with the general — and a few long draughts with Sarah — would be an ample reward for his troubles. He might even get a chance to sleep for more than a half hour.

  The innkeeper went over to the checker players, silently filling their mugs before disappearing into the back room. Jake watched with some astonishment as well as amusement as van Clynne leaned up and whispered something to the girl, who blushed in response.

  He could not imagine what the Dutchman might have said. But then, he didn’t have much time to consider the possibilities, for at that moment the room was invaded by a knot of Continental soldiers in power-blue uniforms.

  Invaded was not too strong a word. The men, armed with Pennsylvania long rifles and pistols, plunged in with weapons loaded and ready, flailing them around as if they expected at any moment a troop of redcoats to burst from the fireplace. They shouted conflicting commands — don’t’ move, hands up, you’re all under arrest, stay where you are, against the wall. Their commanding officer trailed in behind them, sword in hand.

  Jake did not know every commanding officer in the American army, of course, but he had some reasonable expectation of knowing a few this lose to New York City, more so since some of the local detachments had been under the command of General Benedict Arnold not too long before. But this man and his ill-fitting bag wig were strangers.

  That perhaps was just as well. Realizing he was once again about to be arrested, Jake cursed to himself but resolved to go quietly, preserving his secret identity until he was outside.

  Nonetheless, he was disappointed that van Clynne — who else could it be? — had not believed him and sold him out, which undoubtedly had been the true purpose of his brief conversation outside. Jake was surprised at his own misjudging of character — he had truly believed van Clynne was sincere when he said he would help him.

  With great restraint, he stayed mute in his chair, noting that Herstraw did likewise. Even the two old men took the interruption calmly — until one of the soldiers made the mistake of overturning the game board with his rifle barrel.

  The man who’d been winning came within an inch of strangling the soldier before being restrained. The other remained sitting, though his passionless expression had changed to a great smile.

  Van Clynne reacted to the commotion with casual aplomb, falling from the chair with a start. One of the soldiers’ weapons discharged, which brought the innkeeper running into the room with his pitcher of beer. It was not until the innkeeper’s wife appeared with a rolling pin in her hand and a very stern expression on her face that the scene quieted.

  There were two soldiers for every civilian in the room. They took up positions and trained their weapons as the major straightened his uniform and strode before the fireplace. Jake rose slowly from his chair, stepping over van Clynne to approach the major.

  “ Sir — “ started Jake, but the major put up his hand to silence him.

  “ You there,” he said to Herstraw. “What’s your name?”

  Herstraw identified himself, and was told to empty his coat pockets. He laid the contents on the table — a handkerchief, a small penknife, and a coin. The officer inspected each item carefully, pausing over the last. He then announced that Herstraw was under arrest as a spy for “His Majesty the King.”

  “ You can’t arrest him,” protested van Clynne from the fl
oor.

  Jake silenced him with a stiff kick in the side. Herstraw, with the look of a man who knows the jig is up, began walking with the soldiers out the door. The innkeeper briefly started to protest, but the soldier pushed him back in the doorway. Jake, desiring a closer look at the major’s face in case he still might recognize him, grabbed his arm and asked why Herstraw was being arrested.

  “ He’s a known spy,” said the officer. “And unless you want to go and hang with him, you’ll sit back down and shut up.”

  Had he not seen Herstraw’s bag sitting on the floor, Jake might have volunteered to accompany him to jail. As it was, he didn’t move away quickly enough — a soldier caught him in the stomach with a rifle butt, sending him quickly into the chair.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Wherein, the good squire van Clynne reveals that he is in love with sweet Jane, and she, a true patriot, volunteers for service in the American Cause.

  Still trying to catch his breath from the unexpected blow to the stomach, Jake reached over the chair railing and picked Herstraw’s bag up off the floor. With the exception of van Clynne, still rolling on the floor where he’d fallen, the others had gone to the door to watch the Continentals carry off their prisoner. Jake was thus free to rile through the messengers possessions without being labeled a thief.

  He was already working on the problem of reuniting the messenger with his bag and the bullet when he made an unfortunate discovery — there was nothing in the bag except tobacco.

  After feeling through the brown leaves to make sure they did not somehow hide the bullet, Jake flung them into the fireplace, sending a thick, pungent perfume through the room. He searched the empty bag once more for good measure and secret pockets, then flung it, too, into the flames.

  It wasn’t difficult to track the soldiers and their prisoner. They moved down the road guided by torches, and marched without particular haste. Jake’s progress was aided by the fact that van Clynne remained back in the inn, protesting that he had been injured greatly by both the fall and Jake’s boot. The Dutchman said he couldn’t possibly think of moving for at least an hour or two, during which time he would follow what surely would have been a physician’s best advice — drain several large helpings of ale, and receive comforting attention from sweet Jane.