by Jim DeFelice
The message had to be stopped. The war would be lost otherwise.
Jake spent the entire afternoon studying the roadway along the lake, trying to will his nemesis to appear – but even as strong a will as Jake’s could not work miracles. Though Leal assured him that the highway was the only reliable road to Hubbardton, he began to fear Herstraw had found some other way south.
They took a brief lunch on a small island on the east, a hundred yards at most from the rocky shore. Their refreshment was hard bread only, washed down by the water of the lake. By early evening Jake was famished and exhausted, and almost didn’t join his guide when Leal picked up his rifle and motioned him toward the woods. But of course he had to, not merely to help catch dinner, but to show he was not like the soft Englishmen Leal held in contempt.
The trapper had decided on rabbit for dinner, and it took him only a few minutes to find one; a single shot and the animal lay at their feet. Leal searched for a second rabbit and was rewarded with a few minutes. As a bonus, they found a few edible mushrooms nearby.
The dinner was among the most delicious Jake had ever tasted, far better than any he had in Europe or Boston or even his home of Philadelphia: hunger being the best seasoning. Once more he was given the biggest portion, but this time Jake felt no need to contain himself, Leal’s being nearly as plump.
“You wonder why I hate the British,” said Leal after they had finished.
“They cheated you at the fort.”
“That is only a small part of it,” said the Minqua. He retrieved his pipe and stoked it, puffing thoughtfully and handing it to Jake. Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before he spoke again.
“I have a wife,” said the half-breed. “She was stolen by them last year, in an attack.”
“The British took her?”
“The Mohawk. It is the same thing. These tribes are cowards without their white grandfathers to protect them.”
Jake knew better than to argue with the overstatement.
“She had gone among the settlers to sell some of our furs when the town was attacked. I arrived too late.” Here the stoic mask slipped ever so slightly before Leal continued. “If she had been white, she would have been killed. It would have been a mercy.”
Jake nodded. In fact, invading tribes often adopted women and children – and in very special circumstances, men as well – treating them as one of their own. But from Leal’s perspective, his wife’s soul had been stolen – and so, therefore, had his.
“I have tried to get the British to make them return her, but no officers will even speak to me. They call me a devil and spit at me.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“With the Mohawk, it is difficult to tell. I have searched settlements west of here and not found her. But women often travel with their men, as Meeko did with me.”
Jake told Leal of the group he had come across on his way north some days before. He had to fight against ever instinct inside not to volunteer to help the Minqua; a detour now would be catastrophic for the Cause.
Leal took the information without comment, and did not reproach Jake for not volunteering his help. Instead, he placed another piece of tobacco in the pipe and smoked strongly for a few minutes more.
“She is Algonquin and does not speak your language, or even French. Meeko is the name of a magic squirrel with great powers,” Leal said. “In battle, the squirrel could be tapped on the back, and two sons would appear from her, stronger than their mother, whose strength itself was enormous. The squirrels helped the great hero Pulowech, the Partidge, in the days of the ancestor’s ancestors. Her namesake will help me find her, I’m sure.”
Jake nodded. Leal silently took up his blanket and curled himself before the dying fire. Jake stayed awake a while longer, wondering at the great sacrifices even the innocent were making in the name of Freedom.
The next day Jake woke earlier, only to find Leal waiting for him again. Jake took the front of the canoe and rowed strongly, once more without breakfast. Crown Point lay ahead, and beyond it, Ticonderoga; a surge of adrenaline powered his strokes.
Jake continued to scan the road along the lake, hoping Herstraw would appear. They’d come south so quickly, Jake began to suspect he’d beat him. But he knew he could not afford to wait at Bull’s Head for very long, if at all; General Schuyler must be alerted to the invasion plans immediately. Even so, if the messenger were missed there, it would be increasingly difficult to find him.
Once or twice Jake’s heart leaped as he saw as party on the shore, heading south, but these turned out to be false alarms. Finally, near midday, he caught sight of several wagons on the eastward shore. As he signaled with his head for Leal to paddle closer, his spirits soared – there was his man. Truly, God wanted the Revolution to succeed.
Herstraw was dressed in the yeoman’s garb he’d worn in Montreal; indeed, he looked as if he had neither changed nor stopped en route. He rode at the edge of the group; whether they were strangers or escorts was impossible to tell.
Jake motioned with his hand to Leal, indicating they should paddle ahead. But as he turned to check the lake ahead, his glance was forced back by surprise – the party on the shore was being led by a fancy carriage, upon whose bench sat his former companion, Claus van Clynne.
What trick was Fortune playing here? As this was the most dependable road heading south, Jake should not have been so surprised to find him there. Still, could this be only a coincidence?
If Providence was disposed to placing van Clynne so conveniently at Jake’s disposal – well, then, he must be taken advantage of.
Jake paddles with a sudden burst of energy. Once they had gained some distance and rounded a bend, he turned to Leal and told him that they must part here.
Jake detected the slightest disappointment on the stoic’s face before he steered the boat onto a small beach. He slipped the money from the money belt he wore and tucked it beneath one of the bundled packages – he wanted no argument from the man because he’d left a few shillings more than they’d agreed upon. These were the last of his coins, indeed, of all his money, but Jake was now within a few hours of the American line. There his troubles could be paid by Schuyler himself.
Leal did not shake his hand; instead, he held out his knife, hilt first, the same knife he had tried to kill Jake with two days before.
“Take this and remember me,” said Leal. “The bone is from the elk. It comes from far north; and once held a blade of stone. There is a story behind it.”
Jake took the knife and reached for his pocket knife, all he had to give in return. But Leal had already pushed off from shore.
“I shall tell you the story when we meet again,” said the half-breed. “Our fates are intertwined.”
-Chapter Thirteen-
Wherein, Claus van Clynne, Esquire, makes known the depth of his feelings about potholes and patriotism.
Jake had barely enough time to tuck the knife into his belt, dust the sand from his pants, and scramble to the road before the party appeared. They were on the shore opposite Crown Point and Ticonderoga, roughly midway from both. The land hereabouts was owned by men friendly to the patriot cause. If it was not so arable as that on the western shore, still it had a certain smell about it, the scent of Freedom.
Or so Jake would later claim. For now, he put up his hand and saluted the party, immediately drawing the attention of two men in the lead wagon, who aimed their long Pennsylvania rifles in his direction as soon as they saw him.
“Good Squire van Clynne, we meet again,” said Jake, ignoring them as he walked directly to the carriage where van Clynne was seated. The two-wheeled phaeton was by far the finest vehicle in the convoy; painted a shiny black, it would have looked more at home in London or Paris, and undoubtedly done better on their streets. It had immense wheels, and the seat was set so high passengers would have an easy time boarding from the roof of a house. Pulled by two horses, a driver not more than fourteen years old sat bareback on one of the anim
als to guide it. Van Clynne’s own horse was tethered to the rear; though heavily burdened with packages, he seemed to step along quite lightly, no doubt glad to be relieved of his master’s weight.
The Dutchman sat in the middle of the bench, arms folded. Despite his large frame, he bounced sharply with each bump in the road. The frown on his face deepened when he saw Jake pull himself up on the empty horse beside the driver.
“Who are you?” demanded van Clynne.
Jake laughed. “You do remember me, sir. We rode together to Montreal not four days since.”
“I have not been in Montreal,” said van Clynne frostily.
“We rode together nonetheless. You don’t mind my heading south with you, I trust?”
With everyone looking at him, van Clynne realized it was much easier to take on this passenger than to explain him. He nodded to the boy and told him to go ahead – directions that were not specifically necessary, since the lad had not stopped nor even glanced at his new passenger.
“I did not recognize you in that getup,” said van Clynne as the party moved down the left fork of the roadway, heading away from the water. “You look like a French half-breed. You’ve done well to lose your hat, though the one you’ve replaced it with is hardly flattering.”
“I was just growing fond of it,” said Jake, pushing the toque back on his head. “How was your business?”
“I have no wish to engage in conversation with you, sir. Just because I let you ride with me does not mean that I have taken you to my bosom. Remember the I know your true affections,” he added in a barely audible hiss.
“Business was that bad, was it?”
“The wood that grows north of here is damnable, completely rotted by insects. The bugs nest in the very seed as they sprout. Yet they expect twice what the finest boards will fetch in Poughkeepsie. Damnation take them all, is what I say. I plan to change professions as soon as I return home.”
“You found no wood to buy?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Arranged for no furs?”
“What is your point, sir?
“I was just wondering what you would do if you left off being a businessman.”
“I’ll become an innkeeper,” said van Clynne quickly and with so much dignity that Jake began to laugh. “And what’s wrong with that?”
“Every innkeeper I know is a jolly fellow.”
“And?”
“You are a trifle disagreeable today.”
“I’m in my best mood in weeks.”
“You do drag the leg of the fox with your complaints,” chided Jake. “In your mouth, the entire world has declined.”
“I am a speaker of truth, sir, it that’s what you mean by a complaint, then it’s not my fault the world has fallen down. Look at this road, for instance. There was a time when it would have been twice as wide, and if it bothered to have potholes, then it would have had potholes deep enough to hide Brazil in, not these shallow annoyances.”
“Those were the days,” said Jake, “when potholes were potholes.”
Van Clynne grumbled at being made fun of, saying he would resolve to be quiet if that was the only way he might win respect. But it was against his nature to remain silent; before they had gone a few hundred yards he once more took up his commentary, remarking on the carriage’s inadequate spring design.
After the silence of the past few days, Jake found himself almost enjoying the never-ending patter, more so because twisting on the horse to receive it gave him ready cover to observe his British friend.
The messenger was not an athletic-looking fellow, being of slight build. If anything, he looked a little pasty in the fresh air. But Jake realized appearances must be deceiving, since it took some stamina and not a small amount of courage to travel back and forth between New York City and Canada.
More important than his physical disposition, the messenger kept a pair of pistols at the front of his saddle. No doubt loaded and half cocked, they ruled out direct confrontation, at least for the moment. Jake realized too that he could not count on his fellow travelers for assistance. Save van Clynne, he had no idea who any of them were or what their allegiance might be. And even van Clynne had proved that he was not above helping a Tory for the right price.
Nonetheless, Jake was confident an opportunity to overcome Herstraw would soon present itself, and said nothing as the party proceeded. Several hours passed before they took a fork in the road with a sign for Pittsford, and Jake once more became conscious of his need to return quickly to Schuyler with the invasion plans. But his concerns were quieted by the appearance of a small boy flying the wooden sign of a bull’s head – the inn Herstraw had bragged of to Burgoyne.
“The wife knows her ale here,” van Clynne confided. “You will see. Her husband’s an old countryman from England, but she was taught by a German.”
“Old countryman” was a way of saying that the man was an immigrant, far more likely than native-born to side with the tyrant. That and his distant relationship with Herstraw, as the messenger had mentioned in Canada, were more than enough to explain his allegiance – and put Jake on his guard.
Jake slipped his hand to his belt before getting off his horse. The elk-handled blade Leal had given him was ready – all he needed was an opportunity to slip up behind the man and escape.
But escape must be guaranteed. No one else knew the information he’d traveled from Montreal with.
Perhaps, as insurance, he should tell someone else.
“Are you going to stand there in the middle of the path all afternoon?” asked van Clynne, shaking the dust from his coat.
“Claus, let me ask you something. You’re a patriot, are you not?”
“Just because I have not raised a fuss as you rode my horse, do not think that I am your friend.”
“But you have often done things for the American cause. And you know General Schuyler. He’s a Dutchman.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Where did you get such a carriage?” said Jake loudly, giving up his try at recruiting van Clynne when he realized Herstraw was walking directly toward them.
“You have much to learn about the art of conversation,” said van Clynne. “You can’t flit from one topic to another and expect coherence.”
“It is a fine carriage.”
“I have a buyer for it in Rhinebeck, who has always told me to keep an eye out. Unless you’d like to meet his prices. It would be just the thing to top off your hunting dress.”
“I think not,” said Jake as Herstraw passed into the building. “Tell me, do you know who that man is?”
The Dutchman shrugged. “These are all farmers burned out by Indians,” he said. “There has been some trouble north, and they have relatives farther south.”
“They’re all patriots like you, then?”
“I gave you fair warning, sir. Do not press your luck. Here boy, let me see to that,” said the Dutchman, walking off after his carriage.
The ale was as good as van Clynne had predicted. Perhaps some of the taste came from the heritage of the tankard it was delivered in. The wooden vessel consisted of staves held together at the bottom by a copper ring. The tope was tied with a flat reed, and the handle had an animal’s head carved on it, though the cup was so old and worn it was impossible to tell what sort of animal was intended.
To Jake it didn’t matter; his attention was focused entirely on Herstraw, seated across the room. The messenger had taken the precaution of hauling his holsters in with his saddlebag, as if overly fastidious about his possessions. A gun was not more than eight inches from his fingers at any moment while he ate.
When the keeper asked if he would have some lunch, Jake nodded absentmindedly. He soon realized he was shoveling food into his mouth with abandon, hardly aware of the birch trencher plate it came on. The stew, made of venison, corn and carrots, was a sizable feast for one who’d had so little to eat over the past few days.
Jake sopped up the stew’s j
uices with a large crust of yeast bread, the first soft load he’d had in more than a week. The bread and his pocketknife were his only utensils, but he cleared the old-fashioned plate within a few minutes and asked for seconds.
Van Clynne’s description of the party seemed accurate, in the main. This was to be but a short diversion before they came back to the highway south, proceeding through Fort Edward south to Rhinebeck, which lay roughly parallel to Kingston on the other side of the river. Several of these people had relatives there. Their politics were not paraded, but they seemed at least sympathetic to the American cause, as would be expected from their destination. And they did not act as if they knew Herstraw as more than a fellow met on the road.
Could he count on them to help with an arrest? Van Clynne didn’t trust him, Jake knew, and they would probably take their cue from him.
The American agent left his second plate of stew half finished as he contemplated a desperate plan – stay close to Herstraw as he left the inn, then knife him from behind outside. Jump on a waiting horse and ride straight for the fort.
But that would be pushing his luck recklessly. They were now within the American lines and near several forts besides: it would be only a few miles before some militia group or army patrol would cross their path. He could then unmask himself, arrest Herstraw, and command escort to Schuyler. It would not cause much of a delay to wait until them.
Jake, constitutionally opposed to delay but seeing little other choice, worked his way around the room to a chair across from Herstraw to size up his quarry. In the meantime, another member of the party pulled over his own seat and began talking to the disguised British messenger.
Apparently Herstraw had lost his horse somewhere north, most likely by riding it too hard through the night. The animal he was on now belonged to the farmer. The man negotiated a deal – the farmer wouldn’t sell this mare, but promised he could buy a suitable substitute from his brother in Rhinebeck. In the meantime, he was welcome to ride the one he’d been on – provided he paid the six shillings they’d agreed on. Herstraw counted out two shillings in advance to seal the arrangement.
