The Silver Bullet

by Jim DeFelice

  “I’d sooner kneel to a milk cow.”

  “Don’t do anything to insult them. Act like they’re your superiors.” Jake ignored the Dutchman’s frown. “Give the bullet only to Howe. And if you meet a general named Bacon – run, do not walk, out of the house.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Howe’s intelligence chief and the head of their Secret Department in America. A very nasty breed. Their people tried to kill me on Lake George.”

  “What!”

  “Relax. The assassin was probably assigned by Carleton. Bacon doesn’t know me.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “One more thing, Claus – if they ask for your signifier, tell them you were robbed along the way.”

  “My signifier?”

  “The messengers carry tokens for identification. Herstraw has a coin, so I assume they’re all using something similar.”

  “What kind of coin?”

  “I didn’t get a good look at it. It doesn’t matter; yours would probably be different.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

  “It’s nothing. Just say you were robbed. The bullet’s your identification.”

  “Not exactly, though the guards who accompanied van Clynne to the door were impressed by the clipped doubloon he managed to dredge from his stocking at their lieutenant’s third request. The Dutchman whizzed it so quickly beneath the man’s nose when he asked for his sign that it might have seemed like a flash of light – but of course one would expect the squire to be deft with his cash.

  Alas, the general was not at his headquarters. According to the lieutenant, he was attending to business at Fort George, and would probably be found in a house on Pearl Street across the way.

  Van Clynne expressed sincere regret that he would not leave his message with the lieutenant. He also declined his offer of an escort, and rejoined Jake at the edge of the roadway.

  “It’ll be easier there,” said Jake, starting down the road. “Most likely he has some appointment with his mistress, Mrs. Loring. The guards will be well-liquored in that case, and I doubt they’ll even ask for an identifier.”

  “You may save your assurances for another fool,” said van Clynne. “I have found a Spanish coin that will serve my purpose. Really, I wish you would see to all of the contingencies the next time you involve me in a plot. I am used to maintaining certain standards.”

  Jake let van Clynne complain until they reached the point at which Queen Street meets Hanover Square, very close to their destination.

  “Your orders are specific,” he reminded the Dutchman. “No one but General Howe himself. If he’s here for the reason I suspect, he’ll be in a poor mood and anxious to return to his lover. Remember that he issued a similar order to have Herstraw see Burgoyne personally, so stand your ground.”

  A Dutchman always stands his ground. Just remember that you’re to help me get mine back at the conclusion of this adventure.”

  Van Clynne dismounted and walked forward along Pearl Street. A detachment of foot soldiers from the Thirty-fifth Regiment stood at the end, on special duty guarding Howe’s temporary headquarters. These redcoats were more brown-colored than red, due to the inferior dye used in their jacket’s manufacture – a matter which van Clynne implied could be easily remedied for the right price.

  “Move along, thief,” said their sergeant indignantly.

  His honor besmirched, van Clynne demanded to see the general immediately.

  “Which general is that?”

  “General Howe,” retorted the squire, “unless he had gone and gotten himself sacked, as generals are so often in the habit of doing.”

  “And who are you?”

  “You don’t recognize me?

  “Recognize you?”

  Van Clynne gave out a harrumph that attracted the attention of half the sows running wild in the nearby street.

  “I will have you know, Sergeant, that I have just now come down from Canada on a mission from General Burgoyne – another one who’s always changing posts – and have express orders to deliver a bullet to General Howe.”

  At this, the soldiers jumped to attention, their bayonets in a threatening position.

  “This bullet, you fools. It has a message.”

  “I’ll take that,” offered the sergeant, but van Clynne was too quick for him; the bullet disappeared up his sleeve.

  “I’ll not give the message to anyone but the man assigned to receive it,” said the Dutchman, “any you’re not he.”

  “We haven’t used coins such as this since we abandoned Boston.”

  “They’re all we use in Canada these days,” said van Clynne, grabbing it back. “We have confused the rebels by reverting to the old style.”

  The sergeant was not impressed. “Give me your message or I’ll slap you in chains.”

  “My orders are quite specific,” answered van Clynne, producing a paper from his pocket.

  “This paper is blank,” said the sergeant.

  “To you. It’s written in invisible ink, in the contingency that I should fall into the hands of the enemy. We’re not fools in the messenger’s corps, you know.”

  “Fie!”

  “I’ve heard of such things,” one of the guards told his sergeant. “You hold it up to the fire and writing appears.”

  “If you hold this up to the fire, it’ll burn,” said van Clynne. “It needs to be treated with a special liquid, and then the message appears for only a brief moment.”

  The sergeant was momentarily befuddled, and held the paper up to see if he could see anything.”

  “You may do your duty as you see fit,” van Clynne said as he snatched back the paper, “as long as General Howe knows that it was you who prevented me from seeing him.”

  The sergeant, suspicious as he was, was no match for van Clynne at the game of bluff. The Dutchman turned on his heel and took but a short step away before the sergeant reached out and touched his shoulder. The soldier’s manner turned cajoling and pleasant, cooperative to a fault.

  “I’d be happy to take you to see the general myself, sir,” said the sergeant, “but he’s spending the night in the harbor aboard his brother Admiral Howe’s flagship. Business of a, shall we say, personal nature? Orders are that he’s not to be disturbed by anyone tonight, not even the king.”

  “Aboard ship? In the water?”

  “It’s a most convenient place for a boat.”

  “Well,” said van Clynne, reconsidering his position. “I suppose this can wait. It’s just a little message; nothing important. I’ll take it to him when he returns.”

  “Hold on, sir,” said the sergeant, his touch know a firm grip arresting van Clynne’s rapid retreat. “We’re not expecting him on land tomorrow. I will have two of my men guard you until you row out to the general in the morning.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said van Clynne. “Not necessary at all. I can quite take care of myself.”

  “I insist,” said the sergeant, signaling two men over with his head. “There are still many rebel scum in this city. They may be lurking close by even now.”

  Van Clynne took a quick look around. He knew Jake was in the shadows somewhere, but the patriot was conducting his lurking in a most discreet manner, leaving van Clynne to improvise on his own.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Sergeant. Perhaps your men will accompany me to a tavern for a light supper. Have they eaten already?”

  “We had our dinners at two, sir,” said the soldier nearest him, “but have been starving ever since.”

  “Well then, come one,” said van Clynne. “If there’s one thing I know about, it’s food. And you, Sergeant?”

  “I regret that I have duty here. But Robert and Horace will take care of you.”

  “Horace. Is that a Dutch name by chance?”

  “No, sir,” replied the soldier as they started down the street together.

  “Too bad, lad, too bad.”

  Jake watch
ed the procession pass him from a distance of about half a block. He had not been close enough to overhear the conversation, but it seemed obvious enough what had transpired – van Clynne had been apprehended and was on his way to be interrogated at the guardhouse. He cursed himself for letting the poor Dutchman play a role he would have been much better suited for. He could easily have fobbed off some story for anyone who might have recognized him, or thought he recognized him. Hadn’t he recently bluffed his way past all of Montreal? His caution had only made the situation several times as precarious.

  Jake was just wondering if he dared slip away and get assistance from some local allies when the soldiers and their charge made a sudden detour into a public house. This breach of duty provided a perfect opportunity, if he could act quickly. Jake trotted up behind, paused at the door to collect his breath, and then plunged inside.

  Into an impromptu gathering of General Sir Henry “Black Clay” Bacon’s intelligence staff, hosted by the notorious general himself.

  -Chapter Twenty-five-

  Wherein, an old acquaintanceship is renewed, though not happily.

  The mention of the continent’s head of the Secret Department reminds us that several days and many pages have passed since the villain Christopher Manley was left for dead in Lake George. The reader will recall that the British major was last seen with a rather ugly red spot on his belly, the product of a bullet fired by none other than Betsy Schuyler, who proved as brave as she is beautiful, and whose fine qualities will undoubtedly be sun throughout these states ere the war is over.

  We lost track of the major in the tumult of the waves as the small boat went down. It would have been natural to assume that the major drowned; indeed, it was undoubtedly a firm hope.

  But consider: Had Jake suffered a similar wound on a mission, would we have been as likely to conclude that he easily gave up the ghost? Would not our hero find a way to overcome his injuries and pursue his man? Would the mere puncturing of his stomach – as painful and inconvenient as such a wound necessarily is – end his career?

  Manley’s extended physique played a critical role in his survival. Had he been of ordinary height, the bullet that entered the right quarter of his back would have doubtless pierced his kidney, proving quite fatal. Alternatively, had his internal organs been as elongated as his body, they would have severed his lung with the same effect. But Manley’s extra-long body was filled with organs of only average size, spaced out by extra helpings of mucus and membrane. Thus the bullet merely nicked through a portion of his small intestine, releasing a great deal of blood but not his soul.

  Which is not to say he wasn’t in severe pain as he struggled to find the surface of the lake. Here again, his long arms and legs helped him, providing a natural buoyancy that brought him to the surface. He caught site of Jake swimming for the canoe and waited until the American reached it; then he took a huge gulp of air and submerged, avoiding Jake’s scan of the waters. By the time he resurfaced, the Americans were paddling for the shore.

  Manley’s struggle to reach the rocks opposite was monumental; were the author of different sympathies, it might be described in heroic detail as an inspiration for all who would follow in the swine’s boot steps. Suffice to say that Manley made shore and was rescued by his compatriots, taken to the home of a Loyalist, and nursed back to health.

  Nor nursed so much as bandaged, for the British agent was determined more than ever to accomplish his mission. Manley had served the Secret Department in France and Spain, and never once had failed; he wasn’t about to let some colonial outwit him. Nor was his arrogance tempered by any new appreciation of the rebel’s abilities; he considered Jake’s escape a mere product of luck, aided by the dastardly expedient of a pistol kept up a woman’s skirt.

  The possibilities of such a double entendre amused him as he traveled south by horseback, attempting to pick up Jake’s trail. He rode as quickly as he could despite his wounds; a flask of rum that he sipped from every hour was his only concession to the nagging pain.

  In fact, Manley increased his discomfort by chewing constantly on leaves of a certain South American tree whose properties allowed him to go without sleep. The plant – natives used the word “coca” to describe it – grows in the Portuguese jungles of Brazil. It has nearly magical properties to provide energy and ward off sleep; members of the Secret Department had discovered them nearly a hundred years before while infiltrating the Portuguese court, and often made use of them in special circumstances. But there was a heavy price to pay for the increased alertness the leaves provided – the juices were extremely caustic, churning even a healthy stomach. Manley’s injured organs were in such a state that every few hours he found it necessary to dismount and vomit. The blood disgorged in the fluids would have been enough to make a lesser man faint.

  The British agent succeeded in tracking Jake to Rhinebeck, where Traphagen remembered seeing him in the company of a Dutchman a day or so before. His boy had overhead them talking about Fishkill; Manley went there and after several hours finally found the housewife who’d given them their breakfast. It was fortunate that the British major was wounded and in a hurry, for under the ordinary circumstances he would have thought nothing of killing his informants as payment for their cooperation. Instead, he posed cleverly as an agent for General Schuyler, winning their confidence and even assistance. Twice he was able to trade horses, exchanging a beaten beast for a fresh mount.

  It would be happy to report that Justice Prisco, our good innkeeper so recently met, saw through this ruse and managed to send Manley in the wrong direction. Alas, Major Manley had not achieved his position in the Secret Department by influence alone, and was able to weave such a convincing tale that the judge was easily taken in. Manley accounted for his wounds by saying he’d been shot by Tory bandits; he told the keeper and his wife that he must find his old friend Jake to recall him for an important mission to Canada. Prisco told him Jake was on the trail of a notorious British spy, who’d apparently been rescued by the British Army earlier that evening.

  Sweet Jane alone was suspicious – the visitor made no mention of her new sweetheart, Claus van Clynne, a man whom she understood would be vital to any secret operation in the state, if not the country. Asked the direction Jake and van Clynne had taken, she wove a confusing verbal map that sent him toward Connecticut until he until he realized that he’d been hoodwinked. Cursing and heaving, he struggled to find his way back in the dark.

  -Chapter Twenty-six-

  Wherein, Jake chats with Sir Black Clay, and ends the hideous torturing of his companion van Clynne.

  Even the most astute follower of the Revolution will be excused if General Bacon’s name is not immediately familiar beyond the brief mention a few pages earlier. General Sir Henry Clay Bacon – “Black Clay” is a nickname affixed only by his enemies – plays a crucial role as an adviser for General Howe, yet he has always managed to stay carefully in the background. His official responsibility as director of intelligence for General Howe’s army naturally encourages a low profile.

  Bacon is also the continent’s ranking member of the Secret Department, and as such, answerable directly to the king – not to civilian authorities, not even to Howe himself. The general is as discreet about this half of his identity as the department itself, and unlike other British officers, does not make a habit of bragging about the smallest of his achievements.

  He also possesses an innate shyness, proceeding from the circumstances of his birth. For the general is said to be an illegitimate son of King George II, produced in his dotage during a liaison with a courtesan. There are wild rumors of his being stolen from his mother as a young boy and raised by another family whose last name was adopted, but we have not time to go into such stories with Jake standing momentarily tongue-tied on the threshold across from Bacon.

  One other factor of his birth and indeed a major contributor to his most prominent physical feature, should be mentioned briefly before returning to our tale. The g
eneral was born with the caul or birthing sheath upon his face. While in many circumstances this is seen as a sign of good fortune, it was the opposite in Bacon, for it imparted a strange congenital disease. The general’s face had been slowly eroding since birth. Starting from a slight red mark on his forehead, fully one-third of his face now appeared consumed by a deep, corrosive disease – the black clay of his nickname.

  Jake saw the mark and immediately knew whom he was facing. But before he could retreat, a strong arm clamped him around his shoulder. He was dragged forward into the room, much in the manner a bear might invite a friend for dinner.

  “Well, if it isn’t our good friend Dr. Jake, the only man in all of the colonies whose headache powders can actually effect a cure,” said the bear, known to his friends as Major Elmore Harris. “Come in and sit down, my good man. Gentlemen make room. General, I’d like to present a good Royalist and possibly the best doctor the colonies have produced, Jake Gibbs.

  The sincerity of Major Harris’s praise was exceeded only by the amount of rum on his breath. Jake had given the major a bottle of headache powders the last time they met. He had also managed to steal some papers relating to the disposition of British troops on the island and the neighboring Jerseys. The circumstances under which the papers were taken should have left little doubt as to who their purloiner was, but the major’s manner as yet betrayed no ill will. Jake could only play along, letting himself be dragged to the table, smiling and bowing as he was introduced all around.

  General Bacon sat at the end, with a proper border of space around him, befitting his rank. He acknowledged the introduction with the slightest nod of his head.

  Did these officers suspect Jake’s true profession? If so, they gave no indication as the conversation progressed. After the unedited praise of his headache cure, the major went on to other matters, such as what Jake had been doing with himself these past few months.