by Jim DeFelice
“Are you getting tired?” interrupted Jake, seeking to put van Clynne’s mind back on the plan, which called for him to make his way to bed. “You look like you’re getting tired.”
“Not in the least.”
“I’m tired,” said the British captain. “It’s time to get to sleep. I’ll just check on the men.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Herstraw, rising. They were joined by the lieutenant, who walked behind the two men a bit like a younger brother tagging along after school.
“I think I’ll get a breath of fresh air before I turn in,” said Jake, stretching his arms as he rose – and making some desperate gestures to van Clynne in an effort to get him to arrange things with Roelff.
The Dutchman’s memory was not faulty, just highly selective. He could easily recite the names of ninety percent of the Dutch inhabitants of New York City and the northern counties. He could tell you which of them owed him money, the terms, and when it was expected to be paid back.
He could not do nearly so well, however, with the amounts he owed to the, at least not voluntarily. Likewise when it came to a plan he did not particularly endorse, his knowledge of details tended to fade.
Roelff’s upstairs rooms being relatively small, they were all equipped with only one bed. Now, van Clynne, a seasoned traveler and very much used to sharing his bed, with or without the convenience of a bed board to separate him from the fellow next to him. But he had always managed to avoid crawling between the covers with a British soldier. There was something in his constitution that found it naturally abhorrent; between his displeasure and the recent bath – let us say his mind had lapsed.
Unaware of these moral objections, Jake stretched in front of the house, made as if her were yawning, and then quietly snuck through the bushes, listening as the officers talked about the two Loyalists they had just met.
They had accepted his story to a point; Herstraw believed “that tall colonist was a definite coward, obviously running away from the rebel draft with a story weaker than his stomach.” In his opinion, “the fat one is some sort of roving thief; best keep your valuables well guarded tonight.”
It the king knew he was wasting British blood on such as these, Herstraw added, he would quickly recall his troops.
Having assured themselves that all was in order and the guard strong, the Englishmen returned to the inn and went up to bed. Jake allowed them a five-minute head start, then went inside himself, deciding there might be enough time for an interview with Miss Roelff before the way was clear to proceed to the final step of his mission.
To say he was surprised to find van Clynne in the main room would be to state the obvious. To say that Herstraw had been placed in his own room by the landlord, and that the door was subsequently discovered to be barricaded, would be equally wasteful. To describe what tortures Jake imagined as a suitable punishment for his erstwhile accomplice would undoubtedly break all rules of taste and propriety.
Thus, we skip ahead to Jake’s plan to rouse the British messenger from his bed and his room by setting the building on fire.
“You can’t do that,” protested van Clynne. “Poor Roelff will be ruined.”
“You should have thought of that before you failed to carry out your part of the plan.”
“The swim in the river made me forget the plan, sir; that is a very different thing from being derelict.”
“I didn’t think a Dutchman was capable of such a character flaw as forgetfulness.”
Jake was not, in fact, going to burn the house down, but merely make it look as if it were on fire. After alerting the innkeeper and getting him to remove his family to a safe distance (Roelff was a most obliging fellow, even condescending to accept the last of Jake’s paper money in payment for his acquiescence), Jake took a bucket of embers upstairs. He’d already gathered some leaves and pans, and now set off a series of improvised smudge pots. The hallway quickly filled with smoke.
“Fire!” he yelled, banging first on the lieutenant’s and captain’s door. “Fire!”
The officers, who didn’t have to go through the bother of removing a barricade to get out, emerged and ran down the stairs. Herstraw took much longer, coughing from the thick smoke when he finally came out, both boots in his hand.
Jake, lying in wait with his mouth covered by a water-soaked rag, would have preferred that he left them in the room but had realized he wasn’t likely to be that lucky. The patriot had taken up a post near the door just in case of this contingency, and tripped Herstraw immediately, sending him flying across the hallway into van Clynne, who had the duplicate bullet in his hand.
Caught off balance, the Dutchman staggered backward and then fell to the floor, as did the boot and its bullet. There was considerable and commendable confusion as Jake fanned the smoke toward the tumble of men and yelled at them to seek safety. The situation was compounded as the lieutenant returned to the house armed with two buckets of water, which he promptly unloaded on Herstraw and van Clynne.
“Goddamn it, you food!” growled Herstraw, struggling to his feet. “Give me my boots!”
“They’re right here,” said van Clynne, groping for the bullet.
To describe what happened next, we first have to suspend this scene and turn the clock back a few short hours, joining a horse and rider on the road to Connecticut. The horse is worn almost to death, but the rider pushes on all the harder, ignoring his own pain and wounds.
The rider is Major Manley, having just realized he has gone off in the wrong direction, he is retracing his steps, inquiring after Jake at every house along the road. Finally he sees it would be more profitable to ask after Herstraw and his British escort. His horse gives way, there are various and sundry other difficulties – with no wish to make this villain seem more heroic than necessary, we join him outside Roelff’s, where he meets the soldiers assigned to accompany Herstraw. They are oblivious to the “fire” just now being lit, grumbling that they have to sleep in tents while their officers push aside soft goose feathers and ogle the proprietor’s daughter.
“Six of you, come with me,” commanded Manley in such a presumptive tone that the men did not even think to question him. He led them straight to the house, where the alarms were just breaking out. Assuming that his quarry was somehow involved, the assassin rushed inside and up the stairs – and straight into van Clynne, tripping over the prostrate squire as he grabbed for the bullet.
The shouts, the alarms, the smoke – greater confusion had not reigned since a mouse snuck into the queen’s birthday celebration. Guns were fired over van Clynne’s head; Jake shouted and fired back. People flew through the air like witches, and there was all manner of running and disorder. It was a miracle that the Dutchman was able to pluck the two silver balls from the floor where they’d rolled together and toss one into Herstraw’s boot as the messenger grabbed it and ran outside. If luck did not clear van Clynne’s path, then the patron saint of portly Dutchmen surely did.
Jake’s timely fling of a smudge pot into Manley’s face may also have helped, as the British secret agent’s long body provided an effective barrier to the soldiers rushing behind him. They sprawled across the hall as if felled by one of those double-chained balls ship captains use to take down an opponent’s rigging.
“I’ve found you at last,” gasped Manley.
“Just in time,” said Jake, falling upon him. “I still owe you something from the lake.”
Everything else happening in that cramped hall melted away as the two men locked their bodies in a desperate duel. Though Manley had spent much energy arriving here, he was far from weak, and managed the first serious blow, flicking Jake off his back. He jumped to his feet and kicked at him, landing a sharp blow to Jake’s ribs.
Jake bounced up, dodged another kick, then aimed a punch at Manley’s chest. The force of the blow was dulled when the Englishman turned at the last moment. The pair exchanged a few glancing shots, then momentarily fell back against the opposing walls to catch their br
eaths and clear their eyes in the thick haze of smoke.
Never had Jake fought a man so much taller than himself. His limbs were narrow and yet he had remarkable strength, whipping his punches back and forth as if he were cracking a bull’s tail. Jake threw himself forward, fighting off the pummeling to grab Manley around the torso. He shoved his knee upward; Manley moaned as he fell back. But the British agent surprised Jake with a roundhouse right as he surged forward again, and the American fell off to the side.
Not even the coca leaves Manley chewed could match the fury in Jake’s muscles as he called on his body’s reserves to deliver him from this English demon. Liberty herself aimed Jake’s fist as he threw it, cracking Manley’s head back against the wall. Manley brought his arm around and punched Jake’s neck, but as he tried to slide away, Jake struck with the dagger he’d caught in midair on the lake. The red ruby in the hilt end seemed to glow as sharp blade found its way into the villain’s heart.
Three times he plunged into the vast chest, waiting until he felt the death rattle reverberating through the long body as it slipped to the ground. He withdrew the knife and saw his enemy’s last glance, a bewildered, angry look that foretold several centuries of restlessness for his now homeless soul.
Jake had no time to ponder Manley’s future as a ghost. He stepped back through the tumult of bodies sailing around him, then plunged down the steps, escaping outside.
-Chapter Twenty-eight-
Wherein, a small but critical error is discovered, leading to yet another change in plans.
Given the reverses of the past twenty-four hours, Jake felt somewhat relieved to make the edge of the woods without pursuit. He felt even better when he heard a familiar grumbling up ahead in a clearing.
Van Clynne had smashed his foot upon a log and was implying that Heaven had placed it specifically in his path. The squire’s mood lifted upon seeing Jake, whom he feared had been killed or at least captured by the untimely arrival of the British.
“Thank God you’re all right,” said the squire, clapping him on the back and forgetting all about his injured toe.
“Thank God for you, too,” said Jake. “You were a wonder in there, Claus. I really must admit I couldn’t have pulled this off without you. Wait until General Washington hears this story.”
Ordinarily, van Clynne would bask in the glow of such praise. In fact, it is hard to imagine otherwise, given the squire’s hopes for the restoration of his property.
But the Dutchman was a great student of odds. And though the average bystander would have computed the changes of his getting the right bullet into Herstraw’s boot at fifty-fifty, he knew that certain other laws came into play at a moment of crisis. Call it Van Clynne’s Law – the shoe will always be on the wrong foot when catastrophe strikes.
“The wrong bullet!” exclaimed Jake.
“Perhaps I am wrong,” said van Clynne. “You open the bullet and read the message.”
But of course he was correct. And none of Jake’s curses – nor van Clynne’s – could change that.
The troops had moved their tents to the front of Roelff’s property and doubled their guard. The windows were ablaze with light; no doubt van Clynne’s friend was now earning the extra money he’d been slipped by denying any knowledge of the rebels.
Much to his chagrin, van Clynne agreed with Jake that there was only one course open: return to New York City and carry out the exchange aboard Howe’s ship, while Jake arranged a reception for Herstraw in the city.
The prospect of crossing the water did not thrill the Dutchman, and he was silent the entire journey through the woods south of Roelff’s and down the road to Morisania. They had hopes of finding a boat there they might borrow.
The phony patriot raid had not only delayed Herstraw and his company, it had placed the entire countryside on high alert. Jake and van Clynne nearly ran into a pair of German soldiers, who fortunately were too angry at some slight from their sergeant to pay more than passing attention to the shadows diving for cover by the roadside.
When the mercenaries had passed, van Clynne gathered his bearings and led Jake through two yards and a path, down to the rocky shore. A canoe was tethered a short distance away. Alas, the path was treacherous and wet; the Dutchman soon slipped and only just managed to keep himself from crashing into the sharp stones.
The Dutchman’s fear of water had not abated, and so he may be excused for closing his eyes as he crawled forward on the rocks and groped for the vessel.
His eyes were quickly opened again by a series of excited commands, in German, to give up and get out of the boat. As van Clynne dove in, Jake leaped from the land into the canoe, a bullet whizzing by his head and plunking into the water not three feet away.
The other German was, fortunately, a worse shot, and Jake took advantage of the few seconds they needed to reload by paddling out into the current. All subsequent bullets whizzed harmlessly into the night, as long as you don’t count the one that struck van Clynne flat in the chest.
The musket ball is a curious projectile. Much of its potential force is lost in the gasses that escape around it in the smooth bore of the barrel. Still, it retains a considerable amount of oomph; while not particularly accurate at one hundred yards – or ten, for that matter – it can still blow a nice size hole in one’s chest.
Or in van Clynne’s
The Dutchman went straight over when hit, plopping with such force that the canoe bounced wildly on the waves, nearly causing them to swamp.
The plight of his friend gave Jake new vigor, and he soon made shore beneath the jagged heights of Harlem. It was difficult to haul the canoe up with van Clynne prostrate inside. Nevertheless, he managed; after securing it, he leaned back in the boat, wondering what he could do for the dead man.
“You can help me up.”
“Claus, you’re alive!”
“My purse seems to have saved me,” said the squire, reaching inside his clothes and coming out with a large leather bag filled with paper and coins – and one half-squashed led ball. “Now if this had been a Dutch bullet ...”
With Jake and van Clynne busy gathering their horses, tied a half mile away, now might be an appropriate time to sketch out the general environs of Manhattan island for readers unfamiliar with it. Trust that we will return to our heroes before anything of note occurs.
The northern portions of the island are wooded and hilly, not much different from Morrisania and East Chester across the shore. The Post Road – alternatively called the Road to King’s Bridge – runs south from the north-eastern corner a ways, then takes a sharp turn to find the center of the island, a kind of noose at the base of the long neck of Manhattan. Fort George and Fort Washington, not to mention a large Hessian encampment in the middle, cut the head off.
A battalion of ghosts haunt the grounds below the star-shaped walls of Fort Washington on the west side of the island. The fort had been the scene less than a year before of the patriot’s greatest loss in the war, a terrible and needless strategic blunder.
After How had taken the city with a strike from the East River, General Washington retreated and held the Harlem Heights, a strong ridge about halfway across Manhattan. Following a brief but fierce and victorious battle, General Washington once more thought it prudent to retreat, taking up positions in White Plains and the Jerseys.
And leaving behind a contingent at Fort Washington. These battlements consisted of redoubts on a position that commanded the battery above Jeffrey’s Hook. Among those who declared they could be held was Jake’s mentor Nathanael Greene, who had come from a sickbed to assist Washington in the final stages of New York’s defense.
Combined with Fort Lee directly across the river and the assistance of some purposely sunken vessels between them, the Americans sought to block British shipping north. But the British had already shown that the river defenses were no more than a passing nuisance to their boats, and given both the strength and disposition of the English, trying to hold the makeshift
fort was a fool’s mission.
Unfortunately, those who perished in its defense were brave soldiers, not fools; among the dead were many members of Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Knowlton’s Rangers. Those who weren’t killed were captured, for all but the officers, this was mostly worse than death.
Knowlton himself had been killed earlier during the action at Harlem Heights; in fact, Jake could see the spot as the dawning sun began extending its rays through the trees. Though never assigned to the colonel’s troop, he had always considered him a role model. His loss cost the patriots dearly.
But enough sadness. Jake and van Clynne pushed south quickly, hoping to gain as much time for their operations as possible. As they passed James Delancey’s farm on the outskirts of the city proper, Jake held out his hand for Van Clynne to slow down; they trotted onto Grand Street in an almost leisurely pace.
“Hungry?” Jake asked van Clynne.
“Famished,” said the Dutchman. “But is it wise to venture onto the seas with a full stomach?”
“You’re only going into a harbor.”
“Is not the harbor an arm of the sea?”
“I think you need a tall mug of ale, despite the early hour,” said Jake.
“Rum, answered the Dutchman. “Strong rum.”
After showing van Clynne inside a small inn where he was on good terms with the proprietor, Jake ran across the street to the shop of a purveyor whose name will be recorded here as William Bebeef. Bebeef was a man valuable to those whose politics coincided with Jake’s, doing good service by them. He was, unfortunately, suspected by the British of being a member of the Sons of Liberty, but as of yet he was free to come and go without apprehension. A large part of the reason for this was his fame as a supplier of various apothecary potions – and a few formulas that went beyond the usual cures for measles and love sickness.
