by Jim DeFelice
“I wouldn’t have approved that, either.”
Jake smiled and shrugged. “If things go wrong, I can just shoot the bastard. I’ll be behind our own lines, after all. It shouldn’t be too hard enlisting help if I need it.”
Besides, Jake knew one portly patriot who would be only too happy to help – once certain facts were explained to him in a logical, if forceful, manner.
It took considerably more persuasion, but Schuyler finally gave his consent for him to proceed alone. Being a general, however, he could not do so with a mere nod of his head. A grand and windy speech was called for, lauding Jake’s sense of patriotism and duty, complimenting his bravery, inciting his courage. It was almost too much to bear.
“Do this as a lover of Freedom,” Schuyler said as he hit his stride at the end. “Do this for your family and your country. You have the fate of our freedom in your hands.”
“General, you will win the governor’s race this year in a hare’s trot with a speech such as that,” said Jake.
Jake was not the only agent busy that evening. The man who had tracked him from Canada was in fact lurking but a few hundred yards away in the shadows of the fort, contemplating his next move.
After killing Leal, Manley had paddled his canoe across the lake, where he found the road heading south. It took no great powers of deduction to realize Jake must have taken that path, nor was it very difficult for Manley to persuade the first traveler he came upon to give up his horse. The poor man thought the mere crown he offered in exchange much too cheap, but he gladly settled for less when Manley displayed his pistol. The traveler got down quickly, handed him the reins, and then made a dash for the woods.
He got three steps away before Manley’s bullets took him in the back.
Once mounted, the British secret agent pushed the horse down the trail. But when the road forked, he went nearly a mile down the wrong path before realizing his mistake. Manley lost time inquiring about the Bull’s Head; when he finally arrived he was too late to do anything but observe the throng escorting Jake to prison.
He followed the mob as it carried Jake to justice. While part of him admired the poetic justice inherent in their mistake, Manley felt cheated at losing such a formidable quarry and resolved to cheat the hangman of his prize. Disguised as a citizen from the nearby town, he entered the fort on a flimsy pretense and was headed in the direction of Jake’s jail cell when the American made his escape. The British major was thus privy to the discovery of Jake’s true identity. He left the fort almost in a state of relief.
As Herstraw had intimated, the owner of the Bull’s Head was a clandestine Tory. He did not understand the meaning of the ruby-hilted knife that Manley flicked into the table in front of him, but it certainly got his attention.
“We will need someone to gather information from the fort on the prisoner they took away,” Manley said. “And then I need some men to help me ambush him.”
“You’re breaking him out?”
Manley smiled. “Something like that.”
“My brother’s daughter works as one of the cook’s servants.”
“Put her to work, then. I have no doubt he’ll leave early in the morning; I want to know by what route.”
“He’ll leave?”
Manley didn’t bother to enlighten the keeper. He considered all colonials, even Loyalists, little more than primitive simpletons.
“Get me some Madeira,” he said. “And then some dinner. There’s much to be done tonight.”
The innkeeper didn’t like being summarily ordered about by anyone, even a disguised British officer. He had fought in the French and Indian War, and was still in reasonably good shape. The fellow opposite him, with his odd-featured face and paper-thin physique, might be exceedingly tall but could not have matched his own weight.
But even as the first syllable of protest emerged from the keeper’s mouth, he realized he had misjudged his guest. Manley’s arm, acting against the table as a fulcrum, clamped tight on his neck and pulled him forward, holding him out of his chair.
“Killing rebels makes me thirsty,” said Manley. “Bring me a drink now, before your own allegiance comes into question.”
When he was released, the innkeeper ran for the pipe of Madeira he’d been saving for his daughter’s wedding.
-Chapter Seventeen–
Wherein, Jake’s pursuit of Burgoyne’s messenger is sidetracked by diversions on Lake George.
Sobered by the possibility that Albany would be abandoned — though Jake hoped the general’s statement was mere rhetoric like the more flowery portions of his speech, designed to bolster his agent’s resolve – the lieutenant colonel spent a fitful few hours in a cramped camp cot, dreaming of Sarah and what would happen to her family if they were forced to run for their lives. While he slept, a new message for Howe was forged and reforged, the counterfeiter trying to get the slants and loops of Gentleman Johnny’s hand right. Finally it was decided to just write the brief message in an ordinary hand, as if a secretary had done it, and copy Burgoyne’s signature as a countersign at the bottom. Even so, it took several attempts before the message could pass as genuine.
The silver bullet was more easily prepared was more easily prepared – a round ball with a three-quarter-inch diameter had been taken from a Tory traitor some months before; polished, it was ready to be pressed into service by the other side.
Polished, or covered with a bit of grease? Darkened, it would be difficult to tell the difference between it and a bullet for a Brown Bess, at least without picking it up.
Had the spy done that? There was no way of Knowing until Jake caught up with him; he would have to be supplied with grease and deal with the problem if it presented itself.
The silver ball, with an almost imperceptibly thin seam around its equator, was deposited into a special pocket stitched into the lieutenant colonel’s waistband. This waistband was part of a new suit of clothes General Schuyler provided. The plain black britches and brown coat were hardly the cutting edge in fashion, but they were versatile and unassuming. He even managed to find a new tricornered hat with an eagle-feathered cockade, so the spy wasn’t completely bereft of dash.
Considerably more important were the three pistols said to have been manufactured some years before by a disciple of the noted Boston gunsmith John Kim. They were not much different from the standard officer’s pistol perfected by the esteemed Barnett of London, whose work Jake had had occasion to appreciate in the past. No more than nineteen separate pieces accounted for each, if one took the lock mechanism as one. Jake could quickly strip them for inspection and cleaning, which he did upon receiving them. Each came with its own holster, so he could mount them on the horse as he pleased.
The half-breed’s elk-boned knife and his own pocketknife were also returned by the militia, which had confiscated them upon his arrest. But his Segallas was missing.
The militia lieutenant swore that no member of his unit would have dared to steal the weapon; all were caught up in patriotism, he said, and would not have given the slightest thought to personal profit.
If what he said was correct, then Jake believed he had some hope of having the pistol returned to him, since he knew one man who would not think his patriotism conflicted with profit. In fact, Jake had several scores to settle with the good squire van Clynne.
The Dutchman was an odd sort of character, businessman enough to have shown him north for an exorbitant fee, patriot enough to turn him in once he thought Jake might truly do some harm. The American spy might even be tempted to applaud the Dutchman, on the grounds that he had acted according to what he thought was the good of the Cause.
Such temptation would have been easily resisted. For the price of a laugh and a strong coffee at breakfast, Jake managed to convince Captain Andrews to give him the letter accusing him. Reading it renewed his harsher opinions quite readily.
“No hard feelings now,” said Andrews, spooning a mountain of eggs into his mouth. “You know I wouldn�
��t have actually had you hung.”
“No hard feelings at all,” said Jake, slapping his ersatz friend on the back so hard that the captain feel to the floor. “Of course you wouldn’t have.”
He reached down to help the good captain up. He helped him so well that the captain’s momentum carried him across the room to the door, which he would have exited, had it been open.
“An officer should not allow prisoners to be beaten, no matter their allegiance,” said Jake as he stepped over the captain’s supine body and went to find his horse.
Schuyler had not only left orders for Jake to be supplied with the finest horse in the fort; he’d sent word to the small schooner that had taken him north on Lake George to await Jake’s command. This brought with it an unexpected development – Betsy Schuyler was planning to travel from the fort to the family home at Saratoga via the same vessel.
Though confident he would be able to overtake the travelers as they rode at their leisurely pace down the Post Road to Rhinebeck, Jake was reluctant to delay his start for even a few minutes. Though she had saved his life – or at least helped him escape further imprisonment – the agent bristled when the fort’s liaison officer told him that she would accompany him to the boat. But his fears about feminine delays were unfounded; she was already waiting for him at the fort entrance, sitting on a horse and flanked by two black militiamen.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” said Jake. “I had not expected to enjoy such company so early in the morning.”
“Your tongue is as handsome as your face,” replied Betsy smartly, the slight touch of sarcasm completely disarmed by her smile. “Let us see if you horse is as good as father promised.”
Jake took up the challenge and they began racing toward the boat. Though the others were not riding weak beasts, his proved by far the fastest; Jake reached the boat slip well ahead of them. There he found a premonition of complications to come.
The sloop that had carried General Schuyler north was gone; in its place was a smaller flat-bottomed craft, rigged with a single, undersized sail. The boats master explained that the schooner had been called to the southern shore of the lake yesterday on another mission. The ship had run into difficulty overnight because of the storm, which had been more violent here than at Ticonderoga. He, however, would be honored to take its place.
Something in the captain’s quick tone made Jake suspicious, but there was no obvious reason not to take the man at his word. The party’s four horses were put aboard with some difficulty, Jake’s especially objecting to the rocking motion of the boat. Nonetheless, they were quickly under way, the captain and his boy supplementing the sail’s propulsion with long, single-oared paddles. Betsy sat at the front under a jerry-rigged tent, shading her dark, hauntingly pretty eyes and counting the chestnut trees in the distance. Jake – one pistol folded under his arm, another in his belt – stood next to her, scanning the lake ahead.
Even in a moment of great tension, a woman’s presence could perfume his dreariest mood with optimism. How much more buoyant were his spirits now, when the excitement of a new mission had his blood bubbling with the enthusiasm natural of all men of action. Betsy’s long hair, flowing under her hat and across her back, unfettered save for a small bowl, reminded Jake of an angel’s wing, drifting back as it played the harp. And her shoulders spoke of strength rare among women bred in a city. In short, Jake felt himself falling under her spell.
But his mood fell back to earth as he realized the men accompanying her were not militia guards but two of the family’s black slaves. Like most of the very wealthy families in New York, the Schuylers kept both blacks and whites as part of their “family.”
The two young men were descendants of a woman who had been with the family as a young girl; to Betsy they were like brothers – except that they could not go about nearly so freely.
Occasionally limited by indenture periods, sometimes “liberalized” by tenant farming arrangements, slavery of whites as well as blacks operated under a variety of disguises even in such an advanced province as New York. Jake’s own mother had come to America as an indentured slave, a young Irish girl sold into service so the family could eat for a few weeks.
From one perspective, perhaps, the arrangement had worked out for her; she had been able to escape the bonds of poverty and, by bartering away personal dignity, had managed to rise above her station. Jake, her only son, could on a whim purchase twenty contracts such as the one that had bound her.
But to Jake’s mind, her slavery had killed her, shortened her life and robbing him of her comfort when he was only a young boy. Any overt sign of the institution stirred strong feelings.
Despite Betsy’s great beauty, he kept his tongue in check, fearing it would begin to gush with his displeasure. She, on the other hand, was anxious to engage him in conversation, prodding him with comments on everything from the hardships of the war on women to the beauty of the day – it had rained around midnight, but the clouds had been burned away by a full sun.
Betsy asked how he had been promoted so fast; he gave a few short instances of his exploits in Boston and Quebec.
She asked if he had a true love.
“I have many loves,” said Jake truthfully. “My country and my duty are foremost.”
“My father would be pleased with that reply,” she laughed, “but not I.”
Jake responded with a stony silence.
Though slaves, Betsy’s escorts bore themselves like the heroes they had been named for. Roland was a slight man, barely bigger than the woman he was escorting. Charlemagne was of the same size as Jake, though not quite as trim around the waist. Both black men went about their business quietly, exuding a kind of confidence that made it obvious why the general sent his daughter in their company.
Sailing south of Cook’s Mountain, Jake watched with minimal interest as a long dugout canoe with four men in it passed northward. Its rear oarsman was considerably taller than the rest’ lash a rope to his head and he might provide enough height to rig a small sail. But otherwise there was nothing of interest in the vessel, and Jake turned away.
Two minutes later he happened to look back and found the canoe trailing their wake. Immediately he leapt to conclusions.
“Get this thing moving,” he barked, waving his guns as he ran to the back of the boat.
Jake was greeted by the sharp whistle of a musket ball fired from the canoe, now barely twenty yards away and closing fast. He fired in return, his bullet splashing against the hull of the small boat. A rifle went off behind him – Roland had fired – the lead man in the canoe collapsed backward.
Jake aimed his second pistol and fired at the tall man. He missed again, but this time his bullet carried through the floor of the canoe, and the craft immediately began to list to one side.
As Jake ran to his horse and saddlebags to reload, he realized that the trailing canoe was not their only concern. Charlemagne fired a pistol and then collapsed, caught by a bullet fired by their own boat’s captain. Next, two men appeared from the side – a second canoe had come up alongside and launched an assault.
Wasting no time to reload, Jake grabbed his last pistol and placed its ball square in the forehead of the one of the boarders. But his defense ended a moment later when the captain grabbed Betsy and held a hatchet to her throat.
“I think you will surrender now,” declared the captain as his fellow pirates clambered aboard. While one of the men trained a rifle on Roland, Charlemagne’s limp body was roughly kicked off into the water.
“Careful, Colonel Gibbs,” said a voice behind Jake as he stepped toward the man with the rifle, ready to spring. “Step back by the horses – I’m sure you wouldn’t want our friend here to do anything to the pretty miss he has in his arms, would you? If I’m not mistaken, she’s General Schuyler’s daughter – I imagine the general will pay a considerable ransom, don’t you?”
Jake turned and found himself face to mouth with a gun that looked as if it were a cross between
a pistol and a swivel cannon. It had a horn for a barrel, and the weight of a blunderbuss. He didn’t bother asking for a closer inspection, but felt sure he’d find twenty or thirty lead balls jammed down it’s throat.
Now where have we seen such a gun before? And where have we seen such a giant of a man, near seven feet tall if an inch, towering over the boat?
“We have not had the pleasure of meeting before,” said Major Manley, with mock grandeur, “though I must say, Colonel Gibbs, your reputation does precede you.”
“Nothing bad, I trust.”
“Oh very, very bad,” said Manley. “You disappoint me in the flesh. I had not thought I could look down on you so easily.”
Jake’s feelings of generosity had expanded in direct proportion to the weapon facing him, and he let his captor have his little joke.
“Kill him quickly and let’s make shore,” said the boat’s commander. “They’re liable to send out a search party at any moment.”
“Why is it so many Americans are cowards?” Manley asked Jake. “Even the ones who are on our side. They’re afraid of their own shadows.”
“Perhaps it’s the light they’re afraid of.”
“Oh, well put, fellow,” chuckled Manley. “The light of truth and all that. We are not too pompous, are we?”
Betsy had fainted under her captor’s grasp and was left to fall to the deck. Considering the commotion, everyone else aboard was acting with remarkable calm. The horses pulled at their restraints, annoyed by the smoke and noise, but their reins had been tied so tightly that they couldn’t do more than whine and complain.
Jake leaned back against the ropes as the ship bucked, Leal’s elk-handled knife was in his boot, too far away to be useful. Under such circumstances, delay was the best – and only – tactic.
“You’re not simple pirates, then,” he said, his tone as light and mocking as Manley’s. “That’s a relief.”
