The Silver Bullet

by Jim DeFelice

  “Searching for new cures,” he answered, trying to think of the reply whose details were least likely to be challenged. “I have spent some time among the voodoo people on the Caribbean islands. You’ve heard of them?”

  The response was unanimously negative.

  “They come from Africa and have a curious approach to nature,” Jake said, sensing the coast was clear. “I have lately traveled north into the wilderness in search of some of their ingredients. My ambition is for an oil that will speed the mending time of bones.”

  “But doctor, why would you want that?” asked one of the officers. “Then you would have less time to try your medicines, and receive considerably less profit by selling them.”

  They had a good laugh at the general practice of apothecaries, which they understood Jake to be despite his using the title of doctor. In England there was a strict difference between the two, and a good deal of snobbery existed against druggists – provided, of course, you weren’t sick at the moment.

  “I have attended the University of Edinburgh,” Jake said stilly, seeing a chance to escape gracefully by naming the world’s most advanced medical college. “I resent the implication.”

  He rose.

  “Don’t be too sensitive, my good fellow,” said Major Harris. “It was only a joke.”

  “Thank you, but I have other business here.”

  “I had a question for you,” said Harris, whose grip on his arm suddenly tightened.

  “We can discuss it another time, in different company.”

  “The doctor is right to be insulted,” said Bacon. At is first word, even the people at the far end of the room stopped speaking. “There is much to be gained from studying other peoples/ I myself am interested in the voodoos.”

  “That’s gratifying to hear, General,” replied Jake. The two men’s eyes met in the grim light of the tavern. Each instantly had a sense of the other – though Jake hoped the general’s was not as deep as his own.

  “I would be interested in discussing them with you,” continued Bacon. “Unlike some of our other officers, I have better ways to spend my days than whoring among the rabble.”

  His men looked down at the table.

  “I would like very much to talk with you sometime,” said Jake, bowing – and in the process loosening Harris’s grip. “But it will have to be another time. I was on my way to see a patient here.”

  “In the tavern?” asked Harris.

  “There are benefits to consulting in such a place,” said Jake, taking a step back. “The patient tends to be more at ease.”

  “I would like to ask you about certain papers,” whispered the major, “what are no longer in my possession.”

  “What type of papers?” asked Jake in a loud voice.

  Harris’s face suddenly turned red. He could not say in front of this company, certainly not in front of the general, without volunteering himself for a court-martial. But the matter being opened, it needed a satisfactory closing.

  “Oh, the copies of the Gazette,” said the patriot. “But I thought you wouldn’t mind. They had that excellent article making fun of Washington – I’ve already sent them to my father and sister. Those are the papers you mean, aren’t they?” Jake added. The look of innocent puzzlement he expressed would have fooled the king.

  “It took only a half look around the table to convince the major that, yes, that was precisely what he was talking about.

  “You will call for dinner Sunday,” Bacon commanded. “Promptly at one.”

  “Thank you, sir; I will be there.” Jake gave a little salute with his head – a bit too much flourish, but such gestures were never wasted on knights. “In the meantime, gentlemen, let me warn you that an epidemic of a newly discovered strain of the flue, “Greene Disease,” we doctors call it, is expected this spring. I should recommend a good dose of mercury to get your systems in order before it strikes.”

  Having prescribed poison for them all, Jake effected an escape, ducking from the front room into the hallway. AS he reached the threshold, a loud screech emanated from upstairs.

  A cow being harpooned made a more harmonious sound. Jake’s first reaction was to cover his ears; his second was to listen more carefully. It did not sound like it came from van Clynne, but in truth it did not sound like it came from any human being.

  Had Jake stumbled onto one of Bacon’s notorious torture chambers?

  Any consideration for his own safety vanished as he leaped up the stairs, determined to rescue his friend. By the time he reached the top of the first flight, the cries had become low moans of pain. He realized they were coming from a closed closet on the next floor up, just off the railed landing. Two leaps and he made the top of the steps. Another strike and he was halfway to the middle of the threshold to confront the damnable British.

  One of whom had passed out at the table, the other of whom was producing those hideous sounds by moaning loudly into a large bowl filled with beer.

  “It’s about time you showed up,” said van Clynne, rising from the table. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to find you myself.”

  “What happened here?”

  “The English simply cannot hold their liquor.” Van Clynne reached back and took a last gulp from his tankard.

  It took several blocks for van Clynne to detail his encounter with the sergeant. Night had now progressed far on her path; the stars twinkled above the dusty glow of the streetlamps and the moon attempted to peek through the clouds.

  “It seems General Howe is not content with amusing himself with the mistress Sultana,” van Clynne said, relating what the soldiers had told him once they’d started drinking. The reference was to one of Mrs. Loring’s less vulgar nicknames. “He went out to the ship for a rendezvous with a certain Miss Elva Pierce this evening, and awaits a Miss Melanie Pinkleton tomorrow. Apparently, he can’t decide if he likes blondes or redheads.”

  How did van Clynne know the hair color of Mrs. Loring’s new rivals?

  “Because, sir, I know both families. The Pierces are of no account, being English, but Pinkleton – I daresay the girl bounced on my knee once or twice as a child. Her father was a good Dutchman, God rest his soul, but you see what comes from marrying a Scots woman.

  “Red hair?”

  “And much worse.”

  “Would she recognize you?”

  “Claus van Clynne is not a man easily forgotten.”

  “The guards expect you in the morning to deliver the bullet?” Jake said.

  “I’ll not go on the ocean if my life depends on it,” said van Clynne. “Not this evening, not in the morning, not ever. We’re better off trying our luck at Roelff’s. I know a handy way from King’s Bridge.”

  Jake weighed the options. Howe being aboard ship would make escape a difficult contingency, especially since the mistress would complicate things. And the Dutchman’s remarkable cunning in disposing of his two guards this evening might not be so well received among the British as it was with Jake.

  “Are you sure the officers will stay in the inn, and not in the camp?”

  “It is all they ever do. I don’t understand the attraction myself, but apparently they are enamored of Roelff’s daughter.”

  “All right. Assuming Roelff has convinced them to stay, you’ll arrange with him to be placed in the same room as Herstraw. You go in ahead of him so he can’t block the door against us. After he falls asleep, you let me in and I’ll exchange the bullets.”

  “Why must I take the harder assignment? Why don’t you?”

  “We’ll take our horses near the opposite shore,” said Jake, ignoring the question. “I know a place we can tie them north of the British armory, and get a rowboat besides.”

  “A rowboat!”

  “We can’t risk going back by King’s Bridge. It’s too far north, and besides, they’ll be suspicious of any night traveler, especially if word has gotten out about the sham battle we fought this afternoon.”

  “I would rath
er reconsider this entire operation from the point of view of dry land,” said van Clynne.

  -Chapter Twenty-seven-

  Wherein, it is discovered that where there is smoke there is not necessarily fire.

  For about half the distance across the East River, the trip was idyllic. A nearly full moon hung in the sky, shadowed occasionally by clouds but throwing ample light for Jake to steer by. The stars stood ready to offer navigational assistance. The only sound besides the measured rowing was the howl of a wolf somewhere in the distance.

  And the gentle trickle of water lapping against a piece of wood.

  Unfortunately, the wood in question was part of the interior floorboard of the boat. The leak did not become apparent until they were midstream, but thereafter it progressed with such speed that they were more in the water than in the boat.

  Remembering his experience coming in the other direction, van Clynne stood as the water approached his lap, figuring he had only to stand and walk out of this predicament. Unfortunately, rivers are rarely symmetrical.

  “Help!” shouted the squire as he sank beneath the waves.

  Jake threw his shoes to shore and dove into the river just as the boat gave up all pretense of floating. The icy grip of the river closed quickly around his chest. The water tasted bitter as well as cold. It splashed into his eyes, stinging and making it hard to see.

  Van Clynne was gurgling and splashing somewhere nearby. Jake stroked in the direction of the sounds, but found nothing.

  Suddenly, he realized he wasn’t hearing anymore. Wiping his eyes, Jake looked around and around, scanning the surface. He could make out the shadows of the nearby shore – but no van Clynne.

  Desperate now, Jake tucked his upper body into the river and dove straight down, extending his arms in a vain hope to snag his drowning companion. Still nothing.

  Had had to come up for another breath of air. Once again he scanned the surface, saw not even a hint of his companion, then pressed back below. He swam in a broad, desperate circle, fighting against the current.

  Lungs bursting, Jake started to kick for the surface when his foot struck something soft and mushy. He bent down and snagged a piece of thick cloth – van Clynne’s jacket.

  Fortunately, van Clynne was still in it.

  Jake pulled him to the east shore and dragged him onto land. The Dutchman’s body was cold and he didn’t appear to be breathing. Jake turned him onto his stomach – no small feat in itself – and began pumping rhythmically, hoping to restore him to life.

  It was nearly a minute before the Dutchman began coughing. Soon, however, he was exhaling both water and oaths, uttering curses in Dutch, English and a language all his own. Teeth chattering, he finally righted himself, and they proceeded to Roelff’s inn.

  Given its strategic location, the inn was not a large one, consisting of two rooms downstairs, several small ones above, and a kitchen in the basement. Jake and van Clynne found the British messenger Herstraw and the officers of his escort in the second room of the first floor, sitting around the fire.

  “Well, look who’s here,” said Jake cuttingly as they entered the great room. “Our friend, the violent patriot.”

  Van Clynne’s teeth were chattering too strongly to join in the greeting. Roelff, surprised to see them but utterly discreet, fetched blankets and immediately stoked the fire. Jake took a flagon of rum in hand and pulled up his chair near the Englishmen, refreshing the cups of all but Herstraw, who was drinking cider.

  “It turns out that our destination was similar after all,” Jake said to Herstraw, eliciting only a grunt in response. “Are you going to introduce me to your friends, or will I have to make my own acquaintance?”

  Herstraw shrugged. Jake immediately proclaimed how happy he was to see “fine English gentlemen” after having spent the past few days among the “insulting colonials.”

  “We have just been chased into the water by the rebel rabble,” he lied. “They ambushed us near King’s Bridge, and the only way we could get away was to dive into the river. I thought poor Claus was going to drown.”

  Van Clynne shivered on cue. Color had not yet returned to his cheeks, and his beard was pasted to his neck like a drowned rat’s tail.

  “And what is your business here?” demanded Herstraw. “What happened to the mother in White Plains?”

  “My mother lives in New York,” said Jake. “I did not think it wise to admit that in the revolutionists’ country. My friend here, Squire van Clynne, does much business behind the lines, and advised me wisely.”

  Van Clynne coughed vaguely in agreement.

  Herstraw snorted in derision as Jake congratulated him on having played the role of a rebel so convincingly.

  “I had my suspicions, but at the end you fooled me. It has been a troublesome journey,” added Jake. “Really, who do these damned rebels think they are? Give me five minutes in a locked room with Washington, and I tell you, this war will be over.”

  “I shouldn’t underestimate Washington,” suggested the lieutenant to his right. He had a vaguely Scottish accent. “He served with us during the French and Indian War.”

  “You don’t look old enough to have been there,” said Jake, topping off the man’s cup.

  “My father served under Braddock. Washington was a man of great ability, I can tell you. There are certain skills of leadership that cannot be underestimated.”

  “Not one of the rebels can match even our worst private,” said the captain. He was the same man who had posed as a patriot major at Prisco’s. Jake feigned not to recognize him and the captain didn’t bother announcing himself. “Most of the American commanders are foreign has-beens. Imagine, taking Lee in – that’s a sure sign of insanity, if not incompetence.”

  Jake readily agreed – the capture of American Major General Charles Lee by the British last year before still ranked as the single most important patriot victory in the war.

  “What do you think, Herstraw?” Jake asked. “I suppose that you are an authority on such matters.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You seemed to be an authority on everything, the last time we spoke.”

  Herstraw took that as the veiled insult it was, and scowled.

  “Major Herstraw is just completing an important mission,” said the friendly lieutenant. He held out his cup for a refill. “He’s seen General Burgoyne, and is now on his way to meet General Howe.”

  “Really!” said Jake, instantly adopting the star struck Tory role. “I should like to meet both gentlemen.”

  Herstraw said nothing. His eyes cast a withering stare through the room, and someone less bold than Jake might have ended the conversation.

  “What is General Howe like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Herstraw stood; Jake watched as he walked toward the other side of the room, near the outside door. But he wasn’t leaving, merely calling to the innkeeper for a refill.”

  “The general is a very refined man, with very strong opinions. He is an excellent tactician,” said the lieutenant.

  “He often plays the fool,” said the captain. “He is always looking for an excuse to delay an attack. I don’t care who hears me say it – we should have beaten Washington by now, and it’s the commander’s fault. If he didn’t spend his time whoring and drinking, we’d all be better off.”

  That bit of blasphemy – common enough among the general’s officer corps – sent the room into a momentary silence.

  “What about this General Bacon?” asked van Clynne, starting now to come to himself. “Is he a fool as well?”

  “What do you know of General Bacon?” demanded Herstraw.

  “One hears things, here and there,” tutted van Clynne.

  Herstraw sat back in his seat. “Black Clay and his men be damned. They hold themselves above us all, regardless of their rank.”

  “We do not talk of his work,” the captain told van Clynne. “I’m surprised that you know of him.”

  “He’s fam
ous among Loyalists who want to see a firmer hand applied to the rabble,” explained Jake, who wished van Clynne hadn’t mentioned him at all. “Otherwise we know so little of him. What does he do?”

  “You ask so many questions,” teased the lieutenant, “we might take you for a rebel spy.”

  Jake laughed. “That would be quite ironic, since I was taken for a British one near Ticonderoga. They even detained me in a prison cell. I thought my days on earth were over.”

  “Believe me, son, if they had truly thought you were a spy, they would have hanged you straight out,” said the captain. “Many Royalists have been mistreated at their hands. Fortunately, this nonsense will be ended soon.”

  Jake tilted his head, all ears for details on how that would come about, but the captain’s attention was drawn to young Miss Roelff, who entered the room with two pitchers to refresh the men’s drinks.

  Now here was a Dutch beauty. Her long hair was precisely curled on each side of her rosy face. Her bosom was ample and not too modestly covered by the top of her bodice, while her waist was narrow, the skirt sliding from her hips like a graceful bell made from the petals of a flower. No wonder the British took any excuse to stop here.

  “I wonder, Captain,” said Jake when she had left, “how the rebels can be strong enough to attack us at King’s Bridge.”

  “Don’t be impertinent,” warned Herstraw.

  “No, it is a valid question,” allowed the captain, who was starting to feel expansive, thanks to the run. “Even a weak foe will make use of darkness and temporarily superior numbers to strike momentarily at a weak spot. You will see in the morning that the rebels have been defeated, run off without a single loss of a British soldier.”

  “I hope so,” said Jake, sounding sincere.

  The conversation turned to lighter matters, and by some inevitable but untraceable process, came to be dominated by van Clynne.

  “Do you know how many pigs there are in New York? Said the Dutchman, complaining about the city’s hodgepodge development. “They outnumber the people. And why? Because the English have no sense of order. They let things go willy-nilly, unlike the Dutch. When this was New Amsterdam, believe me, not a tulip row was misplaced.”