The Silver Bullet

by Jim DeFelice

  “What if he gives me another assignment?”

  “Even better. You take it straight to me, and we’ll give it to Schuyler.”

  “This is a most precarious plan, sir. What happens when the real agent shows up?”

  “I’ll arrange for an accident to greet him in New York. That will take a little doing, but it won’t be as hard as sneaking into their camp again. All I need is a marksman or two, or perhaps some thugs on the street.” Jake considered his options. “I shall have to call on one of the Culpers to help me.”

  “Why can’t this Culper fellow carry the message?”

  “What do you know about Culper?”

  “Nothing, sir, nothing.”

  “Forget the name. It means nothing to you.”

  “It would mean even less if we could forget this plan.”

  “Listen, Claus.” Jake’s voice had the iron in it that only a deep love of Liberty could inspire. “You said you wanted to help me so you could get your property back. You claim to hate the British and believe in Freedom.”

  “All true. Very true.”

  Jake brought his horse around and was now facing van Clynne. “Do this for your land, Claus.”

  “I want to make sure I survive to enjoy it. It’s one thing to confuse these rogues, but the British commander-in-chief ...”

  Jake, well aware of Howe’s reputation as somewhat less than astute except when battle was directly before him, began to laugh. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll have him debating the merits of beer over Madeira within a minute or two.”

  “There is no debate over which one is better,” said the Dutchman with great solemnity.

  Jake knew it would be better if van Clynne met the general before Herstraw met his accident. Partly this was a matter of logistics; the troop had now passed into very secure British territory north of King’s Bridge, where a surprise attack would be well-guarded against. Fort Independence – the name had not prevented it from falling into British hands – lay to the west, and the redcoats and Loyalists here were constantly on guard against attack, having successfully fended off an American raid several months before. An ambush would be infinitely easier on Manhattan island, where the troops would not be as alert, and where some or all of the patrol might fall away.

  Delaying his assault would also guarantee that, if Herstraw somehow escaped, in the worst case Howe would be presented with two messages completely at odds with one another. Past experience showed that the inclination in such cases was always to give the first more weight.

  But how to guarantee that Herstraw was delayed sufficiently to finish second in this race?”

  “Too back we can’t get them to detour to my friend Roelff’s,” suggested van Clynne. “I’m sure he could arrange to detain them – perhaps a little of your powder in their ale would do the trick.”

  “Where is it?”

  “North of Morrisania on the Harlem Creek,” said the Dutchman, using the Dutch name for the narrow portion of the upper East or Salt River. “There’s a small patch of calm water untouched by the riptides, and there Roelff has his inn and a small ferry besides. He does a very nice business. And,” van Clynne winked at him, “he has a daughter you would like.”

  Having seen firsthand what van Clynne considered beautiful, Jake’s mind could not have stood the strain of contemplating what the young girl might be like. Fortunately, it was spared that labor by the more pressing problems.

  “This Roelff would help us?”

  “Of course, he’s Dutch. And with a few crowns on the side, one’s patriotism is easily enforced. Besides, the British look for excuses to stay there – the daughter is exceedingly fair. The soldiers make camp in the yard outside while the officers stay inside. It is their usual arrangement.”

  “How do we get them there?”

  “I cannot be expected to shoulder this entire operation myself. You must supply some initiative yourself. We are, after all, equal partners.”

  “Equal partners?”

  “Just so, sir, just so.”

  The reader can conclude on his or her own how the conversation proceeded, quite possibly suggesting the various arguments that were raised and points made. In actual fact, Squire Van Clynne carried these out single-handedly, or single-tongued, if there is such an expression. Jake’s attention was turned to other things, namely the two British soldiers who appeared practically from nowhere and demanded to see their rights of passage.

  These papers were calmly produced. The soldiers reviewed them, though it was obvious to Jake that in fact neither man knew quite how to read. The pair were poor conscripts taken from some north country tavern in England during a drunken stew. They’d be eminent candidates for desertion – but now was not the time to convert them.

  “Do you want me to help you with that?” Jake offered congenially, slipping from his horse and going to the soldiers to turn the paper in its proper direction.

  “How do we know you wouldn’t read the wrong thing?” one of the men said gruffly. He poked his bayoneted musket in Jake’s direction, but the American put his hand gently on the barrel and turned it away.

  “Because I am a loyal subject of King George, just as you are,” said Jake, reaching into his jacket. “Care for a pinch of snuff?”

  “Never touch the stuff,” said the soldier.

  “Well, I will, sir, and thank you for it,” said the other man, cheerfully handing back the papers.

  Jake held out the silver snuffbox.

  “Very nice,” said the man, taking it and opening it carefully.

  “You must be a gentleman or something, eh?” said the other soldier.

  “Or something. What’s this? Your friend seems sleepy.”

  Jake grabbed the box from the man’s hand just as he collapsed to the ground.

  “Jesus. Tom! Tom, get up, damn it, before the corporal comes. What’d you do to him, mister?”

  “Me?” Jake flailed his hands, warding off blame. “What could I have done? I was talking to you.”

  “And he – Jesus, I’m –“

  Falling asleep, too, as Jake’s innocent protests had shaken the powder into the man’s face.

  As a matter of fact, Jake felt as if he could use a good strong cup of coffee right about now. But first things first.

  “I was about to suggest your magic dust might be appropriate,” said van Clynne.

  “Grab their guns, then help me get their clothes off.”

  “What for?”

  “If you were as inventive as you claim, you’d already know.”

  “You’re not going to suggest that I wear a redcoat uniform!” protested van Clynne. “My father will turn over in his grave!”

  If they had had time to sew these two uniforms together, Jake surely would have suggested that. In the actual event, however, it was he who donned the private’s coat. Van Clynne fulfilled the other part of his plan, which was to hide in the words with the weapons and create a commotion at Jake’s signal. For Jake had concocted a stratagem that would have made the great Elizabethan playwrights proud – the Americans were once more attacking Fort Independence and the nearby bridges.

  Illusion is mostly a matter of timing. Two men can appear to be two hundred or even two thousand, if the circumstances are right. Jake dashed down the road in his stolen uniform, happening upon the two British privates who formed their troop’s advance party. He shouted and screamed, his horse wheeling, dust flying.

  “Take cover!” he screamed. “The damned patriots are attacking King’s Bridge disguised as Indians! Dyckman’s is already cut off!”

  The two soldiers shouldered their weapons, but were not sufficiently impressed by Jake’s warning. Their attitude began to change, however, when he wheeled and fired off his pistol – only to be answered by two shots in the woods.

  The soldiers dropped to their knees and fired back down the road. Jake slipped quickly from his horse, holding it by its tether.

  “Where are your troops, where are your t
roops?” he demanded as the soldiers tried to reload in the dust.

  “Down the road,” said one of the men, ducking as the rebels in the woods fired again.

  “How many?”

  “Twenty. We are escorting a messenger to New York.”

  “Twenty, is that all? There are two thousand damned rebels down from Connecticut, half of them with Pennsylvania rifles!”

  At this the British soldiers nearly lost their weapons as they dropped to the dirt. Every since the British column marching back from Lexington had been picked off by snipers from the woods, any patriot with a rifle and a halfway decent hunting coat was assumed to be both a marksman and superhuman, able to shoot around trees and at vast distances.

  Jake found it necessary to join them as a new volley sounded, a bullet whizzing uncomfortably close to his head.

  “Take him by another route!” Jake warned the men as he struggled to reload his pistol. “Double back to the intersection a half mile east and then head south to a Dutch path in the hills. There is a ferry owned by a man named Roelff. He is a Royalist and dependable. All the officers know him. The path on the other side leads to the Bouwerie Road.

  Jake steadied his horse as another bullet whizzed past. Van Clynne’s part in the play was proving a little too realistic for comfort.

  “Go quickly. I’ll try and hold them off.” He took aim and fired at the imagined rebel horde. His fellow redcoats were marveling at his bravery, undoubtedly impressed that a man who was dressed as a foot soldier spoke like an officers – and was mounted, to boot.

  Their desire to linger in the vicinity, much less to ask questions regarding Jake’s own circumstances, were quickly dispatched by a bomb that exploded a few yards away with a great whoosh. Careful examination of the weapon and its trajectory would have shown that it was formerly a powder horn, that it had been very crudely constructed in a manner producing much spark but little damage, and that its trajectory originated not from the rebel position but from Jake’s own hand. However, in the smoke and dust, careful examination was not a viable option. The soldiers ran for their lives back toward their troop, shouting the alarm.

  -Chapter Twenty-four-

  Wherein, the name of Manhattan is fully explicated, as several new complications in the plot.

  Jake thought it prudent to shadow the task force’s movements for a distance, occasionally sounding muffled alarms and firing a few guns to make sure they proceeded in the proper direction. Fortunately, van Clynne’s estimation of Roelff’s loyalties proved correct, though the cost threatened to become a sticking point when the man said he would take only “real” money, real in this case being coins. Jake, having only American paper money left, managed to persuade van Clynne to advance the sum and even, after many threats, veiled and unveiled, to cease off haggling. The whole procedure consumed a large portion of time, and they were just running down the small path at the rear of the inn to take possession of Roelff’s flat-bottomed skiff when the patrol’s advance guard made an appearance at the front door.

  The waters were too rough to chance having their horses swim with them. But Roelff’s pole-driven skiff barely fit both animals and it was nearly as difficult to persuade them to come aboard in the waning light as it had been to get van Clynne to part with his money. Finally the small party pushed off, Jake levering the pole with all his might. Van Clynne put an equal amount of exertion into holding his eyes closed.

  “Hallo there!” called one of the redcoats, arriving at the slip.

  Jake, who’d doffed his redcoat uniform and was back in brown breeches and white shirt, waved at the man, pretending to misunderstand his order to return.

  Van Clynne’s horse had the same sentiments toward the water as its master. Once it sensed the shore nearby, it bolted from the small craft with such force that the boat overturned.

  “I’m drowning! I’m drowning!” screamed van Clynne in the water.

  “Stand up,” said Jake, busy grabbing their things from the water. Fortunately, he had taken the precaution of placing his knives, gun, powder, and bullets in the water-tight bladder inside his saddlebag. But everything else, including Jake himself, was soaked.

  “I was testing your reflexes,” protested van Clynne as he waded ashore.

  “Do you need help?” called one of the soldiers.

  Jake shook his head, but then pointed at the bottom of the boat. “A rock has come through,” he shouted, pushing the long craft ashore.

  “It looks all right from here,” shouted the soldier.

  “No, look,” replied Jake, picking up a boulder from the riverbed. He smashed it through the boat’s bottom. “See what I mean?”

  “I will never, ever, go back upon the water. Never!” Van Clynne’s teeth tapped out a staccato death march. “Noah himself could grab me by both legs and I would not yield.”

  “Isn’t that Noah up ahead?”

  “Your jests are not appreciated, sir. Not appreciated at all. What’s more, they are not funny. Perhaps you should try some other target for your little comedies.”

  “Claus, you’re taking things much too seriously,” said Jake. He’d wrung his clothes out as best he could, but they were still damp. “Relax now. Tell me about Bouwerie Village.”

  “I will not, sir: there is nothing to tell.”

  Van Clynne’s face turned white and he began hyperventilating. Jake feared a heart attack.

  Not at all. The good squire was merely about to sneeze.

  The resulting explosion trumpeted through the hills with the force of an eighteen-pounder, scattering birds and small animals in its wake. Not even the famed proboscis of Antony van Corlear, Henry Hudson’s trumpeter for whom Anthony’s Nose farther north is named, could have made such a stupendous honk. This sneeze was followed in rapid succession by two smaller ones. Smaller only in proportion to the first; by themselves they were most impressive, and had Jake not witnessed their predecessor, he would have run for cover.

  “God bless you.”

  “And now I have a cold, and it will be on me all summer. Infernal water.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not bragging about Manhattan,” said Jake, trying to put his companion in the more optimistic frame their success required by changing the subject. “I’ve heard its purchase described as the greatest land deal of the century. And it was executed by a Dutchman.”

  “Minuit was a phony and a crook. He didn’t even deal with the proper Indians.”

  “You’re speaking ill of a Dutchman? This is a new development.”

  “You should check your facts before you taunt me, sir. Your Mr. Minuit was borne on the Rhine in Wesel. That is a far pace from Amsterdam, I do believe.”

  “Wasn’t he working for the Dutch West India Company?”

  “I could work for the emperor of China. Would that give me slanted eyes?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Speak seriously, sir. Minuit went on to establish New Sweden. Do you think a Dutchman would ever be involved in such ridiculousness?”

  “Why is it ridiculous?”

  “Baths at every house! Baths in the middle of winter! If that is not the most foolish race on earth, I am sadly mistaken.”

  We will leave the Dutch squire and his wet prejudices briefly to address another injustice, this one leveled against those of van Clynne’s own heritage and, by extension, all who have ever lived on Manhattan island. It concerns the name of the place itself. Now it will be observed that “Manhattan” is an unusual name, one with little precedent in Europe, Asia, or Africa. The thoughtful reader will therefore conclude that it must have originated in America herself, most likely with the original inhabitants. In that, the reader will be largely correct, as the name appears to be an emendation of an Indian word that sounded, to European ears, as “Mana-ha-ta.”

  So far, no harm done. But an English writer – nothing less could be expected from such a quarter – early put out the rumor that the original meant “orgy” and so dressed this up with wild explanations – m
idnight sojourns with men, women and goats the mildest – that the word soon went around that Manhattan was Sodom on the Hudson, a place worthy of a heavenly thunderbolt.

  This jealousy dates from the time when the settlement at the base of the island was called New Amsterdam, and the official language Dutch, not English. But the English’s subsequent possession did little to quash the rumor, and throughout the Old World and a great deal of the new, the rumors grew like ragweed. New York is supposed to be the center of wickedness, with not only orgies, but men literally flying hither and thither at a moment’s notice, propelled by the devil underground. It is supposed to be a place where women paint their faces as if they were men, and walk about with pantaloons beneath their dresses, while their husbands communicate through secret stones with their wizardly fellows all across town.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. The city Jake and van Clynne were now rapidly approaching was one of the finest in America, with wide, paved streets and a massive skyline three or four stories high. The city’s progressiveness was shown not only by its pavement stones – few if any places in Europe could boast as many paved roads – but by the lamps hanging from its posts.

  These had been lit a full hour or more as Jake and van Clynne passed the British artillery encampment above Dove Tavern on the road from King’s Bridge. General Howes’ headquarters in the Beekman Mansion lay ahead, overlooking Turtle Bay.

  The baby was near America’s most ignominious defeat the previous fall – but that would be too depressing for our heroes to recall that event at the present.

  Jake paused just before the path that ran to the mansion’s front door. He could not see the soldiers who were guarding it, though he knew they would be there.

  “Now, just give him the bullet and be gone,” said Jake.

  “You’re not coming in with me?”

  “I told you, there’s too much chance someone who knows me will see me and ask questions. Besides, it’ll only take you a minute. If there are any generals with Howe, bow to them and quickly take your leave.“