The Silver Bullet

by Jim DeFelice

  “You didn’t know Jane.”

  “On the contrary, it turns out I met her late mother’s father at a pig auction several years ago.”

  Don’t touch it, Jake told himself. Don’t touch it.

  “Getting my land back has become even more important to me now,” added van Clynne, gently touching Jane’s arm. “I intend to settle down and raise a family of my own – if I can find the right woman.”

  Jane’s glow lit the night.

  “Have anyone in mind?” Jake asked sarcastically.

  “Don’t pry, sir. Decency and good manners prevent me from broaching certain subjects until time runs its course. There is a particular Dutch way of doing things, and you will find it is much more in balance than your English or American way. The woman a Dutchman courts is a gentle, angelic thing, unblemished; he must work his way toward her slowly. The process is long but vastly rewarding.”

  As van Clynne finished his impromptu ode to Dutch love, he squeezed Jane’s elbow. She responded by giving him a friendly if forceful swat on his rear. This took him by surprise, and he emitted a sound not unlike a cow’s hiccup.

  It seemed to Jake that Jane might be neither as angelic or unschooled as van Clynne supposed, but he let that pass. He conceded that the Dutchman might be useful – if and only if van Clynne followed his directions explicitly. The squire must fight against his natural tendency, however commendable in other circumstances, to move to the fore. He must do exactly as he was told. And he must do it quietly.

  Van Clynne naturally agreed completely. In short time, they had rounded up their horses and their things, setting out on the land the redcoats had taken.

  “My guess is that they’ve taken this road to avoid White Plains,” said Jake. “With luck we’ll catch up to them before the Bronx River.”

  Their luck was even better than that. A mile and a half south of the school house, Jake caught sight of a torch. After tying their horses to a tree, the two patriots crept through the nearby field and saw a redcoat guard snoozing by the side of the road. He was easily avoided in the dark, and they snuck through the field to see what he was guarding.

  It turned out to be a temporary camp just inside a small copse at the edge of a cornfield. The guards here were considerably more alert than the man back to the road – four were continually circling the encampment.

  Judging from the number of tents and all that had gone before, there could be as many as twenty lobster-coated soldiers in the camp. They were undoubtedly grenadiers, probably handpicked; while Jake harbored no great admiration of the English army’s skills, still it would be difficult taking them on head-to-head. And even if he could, say, sneak into their camp and plant his sleeping bomb – he’d furnished it with a new fuse – a direct attack would serve little purpose. To accomplish his mission, he had to somehow trade bullets with the British messenger without Herstraw getting suspicious. The bullet was probably secreted somewhere on his person – perhaps in a secret flap in his breeches, just like Jake’s. Any switch would require a delicate operation.

  Not if he took his pants off to sleep, van Clynne suggested. They’d be lying at the foot of his bedroll or on a small stool. It would be child’s play to sneak into the tent, find the secret pocket, switch the bullets and get away.

  A little powder on the man’s nose, and the search could be conducted at leisure.

  “Just what I was thinking,” said Jake. “Make sure the horses are ready when I return – it shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

  “You’re going into the camp without me?”

  “You tramp through the woods like a drunken bear.”

  “I’ll create a diversion,” said van Clynne.

  “That’s not necessary. They’re all sleeping. It’s just the guards I have to get past.”

  “A diversion would be just the thing. Where is your sleeping bomb?”

  “Listen, Claus – if you move one inch from here while I’m gone, I’ll have you hanged. And I’ll make sure you never get your property back, or marry your Jane.”

  “That’s a nasty threat, sir.”

  “See that you remember it.”

  Not wanting to be overburdened, Jake took only his Segallas pocket pistol, the elk-handled knife and the assassin’s, plus the sleeping powder in his snuff box. And the fake silver bullet, of course.

  The guard’s circuit of the camp was done in pairs, with each team moving roughly parallel to each other. E was able to find a spot in their patrol where a small clump of woods covered the camp side from the approaching team. The only complication was the freshly planted cornfield that lay between him and the trees; he would be exposed as he ran across nearly thirty yards of ankle-high plants before reaching cover. He let the patrols pass twice, getting his timing down, before making his dash.

  Ten feet from the woods, a tree trunk lay hidden in the shadows. Jake never saw it; he was upended and shot across the ground, landing with a dull thud. The soldiers who had just passed turned around immediately and began approaching, guns at the ready.

  Jake lay prone, the Segallas clutched in his right hand. He’d been lucky, frankly, that it hadn’t gone off.

  The soldiers stepped through the sprouting corn, calling to the other patrol. Was it dark enough for them to miss him? Their feeble challenged indicated they weren’t quite sure what they had heard – Jake prayed for a raccoon to cross their paths.

  The other patrol approached from the right, answering the calls of the first. Jake could not move without making it easier for them to see him, yet if he stayed here, he would surely be found.

  He was just considering which direction might be the safest when the air was rent by a strange, drunken song from the roadway.

  Van Clynne!

  “My love’s an angel, an angel’s my love!” he sang in a voice that would have pierced the wax in Odysseus’s men’s ears.

  But Jake could not have wished for a more melodious or welcome sound. The soldiers immediately turned toward it, demanding that the singer show himself and leave off that awful screeching.

  “Is it a wounded cat?” Jake heard one redcoat ask as he ran by, not five feet from his head.

  He scrambled to his feet before the men reached the road. The British base was silent, its inhabitants undoubtedly fatigued by their exploits earlier in the evening. For isn’t it true that tyrants must expend great energy pretending to be free men, while those who are truly free go about their business without a breath of exertion?

  Leaving such weighty philosophical considerations to the narrator, Jake went from tent to tent. That made his task all the more difficult, giving him twelve places in all to search. His inspection was aided by a glowing ember at the end of a long stick he snatched from a doused fire; he used it to light a candle he found along the way, holding the flame ever so briefly before dousing it. The system was hardly efficient, but at least it gave him enough light to see.

  The law of averages states that, for any given tent, Jake had a one out of twelve chance of finding his quarry. As he worked his way through camp, his odds gradually improved, so that any gambler would increase his bet with each new tent. Such a man would have hit the jackpot at tent five.

  Naturally, the problem with playing the odds is that they work both ways. One gets luck on one side and unlucky on the other. What, for instance, are the odds of an explosion going off just after Jake crawled into the tent, an explosion loud enough to wake Herstraw?

  Whatever the odds, it happened. Herstraw, alone in the tent, bolted upright with the noise. Jake had just time to duck beneath his camp bed. He smothered both the candle and ember with his body, this was one time a warm feeling in his chest was less than comforting.

  Herstraw shouted, “What?” and then followed with some incomprehensible mutterings, still on the border between rest and waking.

  A lullaby would have been just the thing to send the messenger back to Sleep’s bosom; regrettably, Jake had neglected to take choir while at Oxford. The sleeping powder
would do the job just as efficiently, but as he reached for the snuffbox, Herstraw’s grumbles grew to coherent shouting.

  “What? Fire? What’s going on?”

  Lying on his stomach, his chest smoldering, and his face pressed into the dust – Jake decided it was best not to offer an answer.

  “Where are my britches?” cursed Herstraw. “Where’s my coat? What the hell is burning? Damn it! Where are my boots?” Herstraw fumbled around and found them, pulled one on and then cursed louder than before. “Damn bullet. Damn Burgoyne. Damn all generals!”

  Herstraw pulled the bullet from the boot.

  Thus was solved the mystery of its location. The round ball glinted in the darkness, indicating it remained in its natural metal state and would be easily exchanged.

  Not at the moment, though – Herstraw dropped it back down his shoe after his foot was inserted and ran from the tent.

  Now it was the American’s turn to curse. He rolled from under the camp bed, made sure the fire on his coat and shirt was out, and then crept to the tent entrance. Outside, the British were mustering their senses, trying to discover where the explosion had come from, deciding that their search should include a quick inspection of the camp.

  Jake had only just the time to fling himself onto the bed before a soldier with a lamp came inside the tent. Jake pulled a blanket over himself with one hand and fumbled for the Segallas with the other.

  “Get up, get up,” said a redcoat, kicking at his feet. Come on. The captain is forming search parties!”

  “Oh,” mumbled Jake, his hand shielding his face from the light – and detection. “Coming.”

  Fortunately, that was enough to satisfy the redcoat.

  But the patriot had no time to congratulate himself on this slight indication that his luck had once against returned. This phase of his mission was both clearly over and clearly a failure; it was time for him to practice that famous military maneuver, hasty retreat.

  He pushed up the bottom of the canvas tent side opposite the entrance and rolled into the brush. The redcoats were still in great confusion, running back and forth in the dark. This made it somewhat easier for Jake to proceed through the woods, back toward the field where he had left van Clynne.

  He knew that the loud explosion must have come from his sleeping bomb pie. Obviously he had used too much gunpowder and packed the paper too tightly, since it was meant to be nearly silent.

  It was also not meant to be lethal. The volume of the blast tended to be in direct proportion to its explosive power; from the sound of it, there would be no living survivors within a dozen yards or more.

  Jake was surprised at the hint of actual remorse he felt about the possibility of losing his erstwhile ally and assistant. But his foreboding did not adequately prepare him for the sight he came upon as he reached the edge of the woods near the road. Four redcoats lay head to toe in a perfect line, each sleeping like a baby. At the head of this line lay the good squire van Clynne, whose snores we have already established as being at least as bad as his singing.

  He proved impossible to wake. Jake considered whether it might just be best to leave him there, but the Dutchman knew too much about his mission now to be discarded. And – dare we suggest it?—the American spy was becoming just slightly attached to the grumbling Dutch merchant.

  Never suggest it, for Jake would deny it strenuously, citing instead his duty as an officer and gentleman not to leave a fellow soldier on the field of battle, whether wounded, dead, or sleeping. HE took off his singed coat and shirt, leaving them on the ground next to van Clynne’s body. Then he removed the Dutchman’s shoes – an event that proved as much a test of strength a anything that followed.

  Relieving one of the redcoats of a flint and striker, he set his shirt once again on fire, then picked up van Clynne and began running down the road.

  “Running” might not be wholly accurate. “Waddling” would give a better description of their escape. Jake had considerable strength, but van Clynne had a more considerable waist, and these qualities worked against each other. By the time Jake was fifty yards away, “dragged” might provide a better picture than “carried.” Perhaps the word “rolled” might also be used.

  But literary precision was sacrificed for speed. Jake and his somnolent companion proceeded through the woods at the best pace he could muster, until finally reaching their horses.

  -Chapter Twenty-three-

  Wherein, a new plan is concocted hard on the heels of a debate regarding the nature of Dutch ingenuity.

  “You cannot deny, sir, that my intervention played a crucial role in the operation.”

  “I was just about to grab the bullet when you set the bomb off. If it weren’t for you, I’d be on my way back to Albany by now.”

  “The explosion was a result of a faulty mechanism for which I clearly cannot be blamed. You were the author of the weapon. I offered my advice, but you declined it. ‘An expedition had but one chief,’ I believe you said.”

  “Why did you light the damned bomb?”

  “I lit it to cover every contingency.”

  “I thought maybe the redcoats set it off in retaliation for your singing.”

  “part of a well-designed plan, sir. As was your appearance. Perfectly on cue.”

  “I see. You planned that.”

  “I knew you would arrive and spirit me away, yes. Now, your decision to make the scene appear as if I had spontaneously combusted – brilliant, sir, truly inspirational. I begin to wonder if you have some Dutch blood in you.”

  Jake pulled back on his reins, stopping his horse. “Why is it that you attribute every good quality you come across to the Dutch, and every bad quality to some other nationality?”

  “I simply speak the truth. It is well known that the Dutch are a superior breed of people.”

  By now it was well past noon. They had spent the early hours before dawn in the barn of a tradesman whose house was a half mile south of the redcoat camp. Van Clynne had vouched for the man upon rise – it should not take much to guess that he was Dutch – and they approached him for breakfast. After satisfying their hunger and borrowing a pair of shoes for van Clynne, and a shirt for Jake, they returned to their quarry, shadowing their movements south.

  The problem wasn’t finding the British troop – apparently unperturbed by the occasional patrols the Americans sent through this no man’s land, the redcoats marched loudly along the road. The difficulty was in coming up with some plan to change the bullets without Herstraw catching on. Jake began to worry that he would have to admit failure and simply assassinate the devil.

  Which itself would not be an easy task.

  “The Dutch are the most advanced race in learning,” van Clynne proclaimed as Jake pushed his horse up a hillock to check on the troop’s progress. “The world has not seen the like of our technological achievements since the days of the Chinese. I would have told you of the design for a spring-loaded fuse, had you expressed the slightest interest.

  A pair of British soldiers were proceeding as the vanguard. Behind them, the main body with Herstraw and the other officers were just pulling off the road to rest. The foot soldiers were burdened with heavy packs and made slow progress. They were still some twenty-five miles from Manhattan; if they continued at this pace, they would not make the city until nightfall, if by then.

  “Such a bomb can even be constructed with an instantaneous fuse, working on impact,” continued van Clynne, prodding his poor horse in Jake’s footsteps. The animal strained under the added burden of gravity, but it was a patient beast, not complaining despite the boot heals in its side.

  “What are you muttering about?”

  “Noach Vromme, a fine Dutch inventor whom you should meet. He lives in the woods near Skenesboro. Took a wife from the Mohawk – scientists are eccentric, you know. So, there they are, camping again,” he added, spotting the British soldiers for the first time. They have the stamina of chipmunks.”

  Jake shook the reins and hi
s horse carried him away from the road. Van Clynne’s mount struggled to catch up as they continued south, aiming to get ahead of the lead element on the highway.

  “So what is our plan?” asked van Clynne when they returned to the road. “Another sleeping bomb for the entire regiment?”

  “That’s hardly a regiment,” said Jake. “But I think not. I have only a few grains left in my snuffbox.”

  “Poison their water, perhaps?”

  “Killing them would defeat our purpose,” said Jake. “Besides, I don’t have any poison.”

  “Surely we can rally a few militiamen in the vicinity and waylay them before they cross King’s Bridge.”

  Inspiration works in very mysterious ways. The Greeks had invented the muses as its agent, picturing loosely dressed nymphs whispering in artists’ ears. AS an attempt to explain creativity, it had its flaws – what poet would bother writing with a partially clad woman in the room? More likely, inspiration worked as a thunderbolt thrown by ...

  A fat Dutchman with a big mouth?

  “Of course,” said Jake, snapping his fingers. “I’ve been going about this in the wrong way. Howe doesn’t know Herstraw and isn’t expecting him. It would be a simple matter for you to go in his place.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but I believe the effects of last night’s sleeping drug have lingered in my brain. Did you say, for me to go in his place?”

  “Who else?”

  “Why, you of course,” protested van Clynne. “You are well versed in these matters, while I am just a lowly assistant and amateur.”

  “You’re Dutch, though. The Dutch have a natural superiority in all matters.”

  Jake had never met Howe himself, but there was more than enough officers in his retinue, to say nothing of the city, who knew him under other guises. It would strain credibility for him to try and pass himself off now as a messenger. But van Clynne was perfect.

  All you have to do is give him the bullet, doff your hat and be off. You say you work for Burgoyne, and his adjunct will never be the wiser.”