The Silver Bullet

by Jim DeFelice

  Wherein, van Clynne’s prowess as a lover is extolled, and the travelers reach British territory.

  “So?”

  Van Clynne shot Jake a puzzled glance from the back of his horse. “So what?”

  “How’d it go?”

  “How’d what go?”

  “You left your bed in the middle of the night. I assume you had a midnight rendezvous in town.”

  “I told you, I spent the entire night sleeping outside the door to our room. Why did you bar it against me?”

  “Oh, here now, Claus.” Jake gave him a wink. “I’ve heard stories about you Dutchmen. It’s not for nothing you wear your breeches loose, is it?”

  “I wear my breeches in very proper fashion,” protested van Clynne, stroking his beard for emphasis.

  “When you wear them. What, do you expect me to believe you spent the night swimming in the ocean?”

  “Well,” said van Clynne, stifling a sniffle, “I did have things to attend to.”

  “You’re a good man of business, squire,” chuckled Jake.

  As difficult as it is to imagine van Clynne’s already rotund body puffing, it did seem to inflate under the stimulus of Jake’s flattery. Of course, that did not stop him from continuing his complaint that he had not had much sleep.

  The detour around Ticonderoga had taken them too far to the west, and they were now traveling back toward Lake Champlain. Jake did not have a firm idea of where they were, surmising only that Crown Point – in British control – lay well to the southeast. Van Clynne evidently intended on bypassing the British frontier garrisons, much as he had tiptoed around the American stronghold at the foot of the lake. Not a horribly bad idea, all things considered.

  As a precaution before leaving the Blom house this morning, Jake had burnt papers from Schuyler allowing him to travel unmolested through patriot lines; if stopped by a British patrol, they would raise many embarrassing questions. His only documents now were a list of Indian goods he had supposedly been sent by his father in Philadelphia to search for, and a letter from Governor Guy Carleton’s secretary vouching for his character. Both, of course, were forgeries, though Jake had some confidence no British soldiers would realize he’d never quite mastered his father’s habit of looping his o’s at the top.

  Having set out when it was still dark, they breakfasted shortly after the sun rose, stopping on a hill that looked out toward the lake, still a good two miles distant. They split a venison pasty prepared by Johanna. It was not an equitable split – Jake felt he was doing well to get a quarter of it.

  As his experience in the ditch last night hinted, van Clynne’s reluctance to venture on the water was largely based on his fear of drowning. Nevertheless, it now appeared a wise decision, as Jake saw when he remounted his horse and looked toward Lake Champlain. A trio of gunboats were exchanging intermittent fire with two smaller craft. From the distance the battle appeared more in play than earnest. The geysers from the errant cannon fire looked like pimples suddenly erupting on the water’s clear face.

  No wonder Flanagan had asked him to complete the mission within a week, a time span that was so short as to be nearly ludicrous. The British was already testing the American defenses; the invasion might come at any moment. This might even be its vanguard.

  The boats shifted about with neither side gaining an advantage. Jake and van Clynne watched silently from the distance as the drama played out. They were so absorbed in the battle that they did not hear the approaching riders until they were almost upon them. When they did, the Dutchman merely shrugged, continuing to watch the battle. No doubt this was part of a strategy of nonchalance; Jake told himself once more that he could not have chosen a better guide.

  And so the moment of truth stole up quietly, trotting forward in the form of a British lieutenant and his sergeant, who shouted roughly at them but then likewise turned their attentions to the battle in the distance.

  “Got the damned rebels on the run,” said the sergeant when the two small fleets parted.

  Jake grunted in assent. Van Clynne said nothing.

  “You will honor me, gentlemen, with your papers,” said the lieutenant.

  “And what if I have no papers to treat you with?” said Van Clynne hostilely. “What will you do then?”

  “We’ll take you back as prisoners and spies,” answered the officer, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

  A moment before, Jake could not have had a higher opinion of van Clynne, whose services as a guide had been invaluable. Now his estimation shifted one hundred and eighty degrees – the man was inviting not only suspicion, but death. Nonetheless, Jake remained outwardly calm. He could have his Styan in hand and fired before the officer had finished kicking his horse’s flanks for a charge. Then he’d reach down and test his new Hawkins on the sergeant.

  “In the days of Governor Stuyvesant, no traveler was ever ill-treated,” said van Clynne, reaching into his vest for the papers. “Even an Indian would get proper respect. A man’s word was his guarantee. Now, without a piece of foolscap signed by every monkey in the province, one can’t even journey three leagues. Every sneeze is regulated.”

  The officer put his sword back in its sheath and nodded to the sergeant, who dismounted, snatched the wad of papers from van Clynne and handed them over. The lieutenant unfolded the several pages paying careful consideration to the signatures if not the rest of the words, before handing them back.

  “Who’s he?” asked the officer.

  “My son,” said van Clynne.

  At that, everyone raised an eyebrow, including Jake.

  “He doesn’t look Dutch,” said the sergeant. “He’s dressed like a macaroni.” Macaroni was a derogatory term for a dandy, and though Jake would not have been taken for such in the city, out here the fine cut of his clothes tended to stand out.

  “The ways of the young,” said van Clynne, shaking his head. “I wish I could talk some sense into his head. Perhaps you can.”

  “Be happy to try,” said the sergeant, reaching towards Jake’s horse.

  Jake pulled the reins around and answered him with a string of oaths in ill-formed pidgin Dutch. Though ruinous to van Clynne’s ears, they were enough to convince the soldiers. The Dutchman grabbed his papers back and prodded his horse forward, setting off down the road. Jake followed quickly.

  “Why did you give them a hard time?” he asked when they were out of earshot.

  “They were British.” To van Clynne it seemed a natural explanation. “I told you the hat would draw attention, didn’t I?”

  “Do you really think they’d believe I was your son?”

  “What do I care?” said van Clynne. “You’re a deserter, and they won’t shoot you for that.”

  “What do you mean, I’m a deserter?”

  “You are. You’re a Loyalist who’s had enough of the fight. I’d wager that your neighbors drove you from your home and sent you packing. Rattlesnake cure, indeed.”

  “I’m an apothecary,” said Jake, adding a slightly mournful note to his voice, as if all van Clynne said were true.

  “Yes, well, I’ll take my twenty crowns now, if you please.”

  “We agreed on Montreal. I have a friend there who’ll give me the money.”

  “Listen up, fellow. You have more than twenty crowns in your purse, I dare say. I don’t care to know your business, but my guess is that you want to get north as quickly as possible, to see your friend or family, whichever it may be. Now I have business to transact in several houses near here and I will be all day and possibly the next two or three about it. You may tag along if you wish, but we’ve gotten through the America lines, which was where the danger lay for you. Wasn’t it? Well?”

  Jake nodded solemnly. Van Clynne was quite pleased with himself.

  “Cut through this field and take the road there,” he said, pointing to his right. “You’ll come along the highway, and you can ride straight to Montreal. It’s eighty miles at the most, no more.”

  “H
ow do I know you’re not sending me into a trap?” said Jake, caught up in his role as a Tory coward.

  “If I were going to turn you in, I would have done so near Ticonderoga. Besides, there’s no profit in it – unless, of course, you don’t pay me now.”

  Jake reached inside his clothes to the money belt around his waist. He counted out four gold guineas and then two crowns. Together the coins could have kept a Boston family in clothes and bread for more than a month.

  Van Clynne examined the coins to see if they had been shaved, a common practice. Each was intact and practically new, an oddity he noted but did not remark on. Before finding their way to Jake’s money belt they had been in the charge of a British paymaster, but the tale of that detour lies outside our immediate scope.

  “Thank you, good sir,” said the Dutchman, doffing his hat as he dropped the coins into a purse he kept on a long string around his neck. “And now, I bid you farewell.”

  “Good luck in your business,” said Jake. “Until we meet again.”

  “I’d get rid of the hat if I were you,” were van Clynne’s parting words.

  The city of Montreal lies at the foot of Mount Royal on a strategic island in the St. Lawrence. The great French explorer Jacques Cartier discovered it and claimed it for the greater glory and profit of the French kingdom in 1535, though it was not until 1642 that white men made a lasting settlement. The profit in question was largely spiritual, with the Association of Montreal formed by Sieur Paul de Chomedey de Maisonneuve aiming squarely at converting the heathen and adding their population to heaven.

  The French, and their Jesuit priests especially, felt a special calling to promulgate the Word in the wilderness, baptizing freely and spreading the spirit of Christianity by whatever means necessary. Smallpox was not meant to be one of those means, but it was nonetheless distributed more quickly and efficiently than the scriptures.

  Jeffrey Amherst took Montreal for the British in 1760. Robert Montgomery took it for the Americans in 1775. By the fall of 1776, Benedict Arnold and his tattered band of disease-ravaged soldiers had given it back, abandoning it in disarray.

  By that time Jake was already hard at work for General Greene in New York. After being wounded at Quebec in late December 1775, he’d been evacuated to a makeshift hospital. There he’d refused to let the surgeon take off his leg, preferring death to life as a cripple. His stubbornness had cost him great suffering, but Jake had gambled that he could survive the wound without infection or complication, and won. In truth, the decision had been made at least partly from the wild despair of having seen his friend Captain Thomas and then General Montgomery die but a few yards from him on the battlefield. For a dark moment Jake Stewart Gibbs had not truly cared whether he lived or died.

  A great deal of time had passed since then. Jake shifted himself on his horse as he rode along the St. Lawrence, fighting off the sad memories as he steadied himself for the tasks ahead. He decided to promote himself from druggist to doctor – his new cover story would proclaim him a country physician heading to the big city for supplies. Jake, though not specifically trained as a doctor, knew a good portion of medicine from his family’s trade and his own studies of natural philosophy. He could not only fool any soldiers who questioned him: he could probably treat them better than the military quacks at their camps.

  The only deficiency in his story was his dress. As the British sergeant had pointed out, he looked a bit too much the gentleman to be the rough traveler. He adjusted his appearance by loosening his shirt and removing the eagle feather stuck in his cap, but a wary mind at the city’s fort could easily find questions for which vague answers would be his only reply.

  Which was one reason he didn’t intend on going straight in the front door, at least not tonight. Another was the fact that he was tired and hungry, and it was already quite late. The last, and most important, reason was that he was hoping to renew an old acquaintance.

  “Jesu – back from the dead!” exclaimed Marie Sacre when she opened the door.

  “Comment vas-tu?” he replied in a bashful and rusty French.

  “Tres bien. But my God, I never expected to see you! Zut!

  “Can a poor traveler enter?”

  “Of course!” Marie’s hair was held back in a simple, almost frontier style, but the thick, smooth material of her mauve-colored dress hinted that she was not merely a plain farmer’s wife. The smooth cotton flattered her shape and at the same time was warm and comforting.

  “Comme les francais sont amiables!” said Jake. The French are so easy.

  “Don’t get fresh,” she said, pulling him along into the front room of the large, two-story brick building.

  As Jake took a step onto the wide-beamed floor, a long narrative of his journey formed on his tongue. He was just able to cut it off when he saw the room was not empty.

  Not at all. Its occupant rose from his chair, dressed in the bright red jacket favored by followers of His Royal Majesty, the King of England.

  “Captain Clark, let me introduce you to my cousin, Jake Gibson,” said Marie, putting her arm on his shoulder as she amended his name. “Jake is quite a traveler. He’s just come from Quebec.”

  “Indirectly,” said Jake, his only option to play along with what she said.

  “Then you must have seen Burgoyne!” exclaimed the British captain, taking his hand and pumping it like a glassblower’s bellows with a strong, crushing grip.

  “I left before he arrived,” said Jake, hoping that made sense – and that he wouldn’t have to be more specific. “I had business with the savages.”

  “We don’t call them savages anymore,” said Marie in the light but firm voice one used to correct a child. “They are allies.”

  “What business are you in?” asked the captain.

  “I am a doctor of sorts,” said Jake, looking at Marie to make sure she heard – and agreed.

  “Of sorts?”

  “In the backwoods one handles many things. One learns many things,” said Jake, warming now to the task of fooling and then pumping this Captain Clark for information. “I have these past few months been contemplating the efficacy of a rattlesnake cure. I learned of it from a Jesuit, who told me the Huron swore by it as a cure for many diseases, including cancer and pox.”

  “Inoculation works against the pox,” said the soldier.

  “Not in all cases. The humor must be properly balanced.”

  Marie disappeared into the other room. Jake settled in a chair next to the fire, warming himself. His face and manner were nonchalant, but beneath the façade he was coiled and ready to strike. His pocket pistol was charged, though he wasn’t sure even all four of his bullets could fell the large man across from him. Fortunately, the officer appeared unarmed, without even his sword. Obviously, he was on very friendly terms with the house’s occupant – a fact which not only surprised but perturbed Jake. To find Marie cozying up to the other side wounded him more than the powerfully built redcoat ever could.

  “I thought of studying medicine myself before joining the army,” said Clark. “I still may, when I return home.”

  “Yes,” said Jake. “How long since you left England?”

  “Oh, I’ve been here for over a year. Came with Burgoyne to rout the rabble, as it were, but I was transferred to the governor’s staff. The general, of course, spent the winter in England – jolly wish I could have.”

  Jake nodded. “But he’s back now.”

  “He certainly is. Thank you, my dear,” said the captain, rising as Marie returned with a tray of tea cups, along with a dish of supper for Jake.

  She placed the tray on a small settee; Jake noted that she didn’t have to ask the British officer how much sugar he wanted when dropping in the lumps.

  “It looks to me your cousin wants something stronger than tea,” said the captain when Jake didn’t take his cup.

  “My system is allergic to tea,” said Jake.

  Marie turned the harsh undertone to his voice aside as lig
htly as a compliment. “Oh, I’ve forgotten, cousin, about your unbalanced humors. How silly of me. Would you like some coffee instead?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I haven’t any.” She laughed. “I’ll get the rum.”

  “Allergic to tea?” said the officer. “You sound like a rebel.”

  He was joking, but Jake wasn’t. “And what if I do?”

  The captain didn’t take up the challenge, tut-tutting as he sipped from the delicate china cup. “Meant nothing by it, my friend. You’ll have to forgive me; being a soldier one sometimes finds jokes at other people’s expense too easily. My brother is allergic to cats, actually. Quite the thing – put one in a room with him and in two minutes he’s sneezing a storm. The devil must spend the day outside his door to catch his soul at some unguarded moment.”

  Marie, standing at the door, shook her head sternly, warning Jake off. In any event, the captain proved unprovocable and skillfully evasive. An hour’s worth of fishing failed to produce anything useful.

  “You’re still attending the ball tomorrow night, yes?” Clark said to Marie as he took his leave.

  “Of course.”

  “Bring your cousin,” he added. “He should meet Governor Carleton. And General Burgoyne. Doctors are in great demand.”

  “He’ll be there, I’m sure,” she said before pecking the captain on the cheek.

  -Chapter Eight–

  Wherein, Jake has a heart-to-heart discussion with his close friend and sometime cousin, Marie Sacre.

  “But a British soldier, Marie!”

  “And what, I should have sat here alone like a num waiting for some jackal of a farmer to appear on my doorstep? Thank you for your advice, Jake Gibbs, but I don’t need it. I have fended for myself long before I met you, and will do so long after you are gone. Which, I assume, shall be shortly.”

  She pushed away from him on the bed, folding her arms across her breasts. Her stays and hoops, petticoat and dress, lay in a trail back across the room.