by Jim DeFelice
Bebeef’s encyclopedic knowledge of medicines and chemistry went far beyond Jake’s own, and the agent had some hope that the old man could conjure a temporary cure for van Clynne’s water phobia. But Bebeef was not in the shop; as a precaution, he’d taken to staying nights with his sister in Brooklyn. The lad he’d left in charge – woken with a discreet shake of his cot – was a mere apprentice who had hardly progressed beyond simple cures for dog distemper. Jake did not have any time to spend cobbling together concoctions himself, much less send for Bebeef. By way of compensation, he borrowed a package the chemist stored against contingencies, figuring his own might prove more urgent.
The bundle was a special type of bomb shaped like a miniature keg, bound of a very light fire wood. A short fuse ran off each end and was twisted in the middle; there was a space of perhaps three seconds between lighting and ignition of the explosive.
The powder at the center of the weapon was packed very tightly and shaped into an odd series of curlicues, held in place by starch-stiffened baffles, which, Bebeef had explained to the boy, acted like a magnifying lenses, except they worked on sound, not light. The effect of his meticulous engineering was to produce an explosion so loud that it could literally stun anyone within fifty feet into a temporary state of shock. Jake had seen one of these “noise kegs” stop the advance of a British column up Long Island last fall. While awkward to use, it was just the thing to cool a hot pursuit. Jake placed the bomb in his saddlebag, intending to reserve it for their escape from the city this afternoon, and then went inside the inn to retrieve his companion.
The Dutchman was on the point of ordering a piece of pie to go with his run.
“I thought you weren’t hungry,” said Jake.
“The good woman tells me the pie here is made according to an ancient Dutch recipe, and it would be a shame to pass it by.”
“Take it with you then,” said Jake. “We have to go.”
The Dutchman grumbled, but otherwise offered no protest as Jake called for a bill. “I was thinking,” he said, tugging Jake’s sleeve. “Perhaps I should take some of that sleeping powder with me, in case I have trouble aboard ship.”
“I have no more,” said Jake, “and there isn’t time to prepare any. Besides, if you’re caught with it, Howe will realize something’s up.”
“Only after he wakes.”
“The operation depends on his never suspecting a thing. Here,” said Jake, reaching into the scabbard at his belt and producing the assassin’s knife. “Carry this with you.”
“That skinny thing?” Van Clynne pushed the dagger aside on the table. “I have my own knife, thank you.”
“It’s not just a knife. You see this?” Jake pointed at the ruby.
“I rather doubt the general will be bribed by such a bauble.”
“The knife is used only by members of the British Secret Service Department. The fact that you have it will signify to Howe that you’re a special agent. It will make him trust you.”
“Really?” Van Clynne picked the knife up and examined it carefully. “The Secret Department?”
Jake nodded solemnly. Van Clynne turned the weapon over in his hand.
“Will they believe a Dutchman is part of their army?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Jake quickly, trying to boost his companion’s morale. In truth, the higher ranking officers might. He hoped van Clynne wouldn’t have to put it to the test. “The British are not given to asking questions where the department is concerned,” he added truthfully. “Generally, their agents have only one mission – to kill someone. They’ve assassinated princes all over Europe. Supposedly, they’ve even killed a pope or two.”
“And who should I say I’m supposed to kill?”
“You don’t say under any circumstances. If you do, they’ll have to kill you.”
The reader will be left to imagine the conversation as it proceeded, with van Clynne continuing to question the contingencies and Jake continuing to assure him that it would not matter. The discussion continued in hushed tones as they rode amid early rising British soldiers and local residents to Pearl Street, where the boat to take van Clynne to Howe would be waiting.
The masts of the British Navy, along with the various commercial vessels in port, formed a hedgerow across the front of Brooklyn Heights. Admiral Lord Richard Howe’s flagship the Eagle, where his brother General Sir William Howe was staying, was a good distance out, near Staten Island. It was a heady, proud ship of the line, and while far from the biggest in the British fleet, nonetheless it was a leviathan here.
Van Clynne tried not to look at any part of the water, not even the seafront before them as they approached the port. Instead he conjured the vision of his pleasantly landlocked homestead. He could see himself staring up at the long gabled roof, admiring the smart windows, the small roof over the door. All he had to do was close his eyes, get across the water, and give Howe his bullet.
“Oh my God!” said van Clynne suddenly. “I don’t have the bullet.”
“I’ve got it right here,” said Jake. “Relax.”
The admonition was answered by a sharp smack across the back that sent Jake flying into the dust. It had not come from van Clynne – the sergeant of the guard and three of his minions stood before the portly Dutchman.
-Chapter Twenty-nine-
Wherein, van Clynne overcomes his fear of water in a most unconventional but expedient manner.
“Where are the two men I sent to escort you last night?” the sergeant demanded of van Clynne.
“What do you mean, knocking my friend down?” responded the Dutchman. “And where did you come from?”
“We have been standing right here the whole time. You would have seen us if not for your incessant jabbering. Your friend would do well to stay out of our way,” he added. “Or perhaps we will find some use for him.”
“You can be sure that I will make a full report of this to General Howe,” said van Clynne.
“Never mind that. What did you do to my men?”
“Your men,’ replied the squire with consternation equal to the sergeants, “can’t hold their liquor. They took me to a tavern and proceeded to make a spectacle of themselves. I had come to expect more from the British Army. It had been said, in fact, that the men of your regiment were considerably more accomplished at whoring than the army as a whole.” Van Clynne touched the point of the sergeant’s sword gingerly, then pushed it away. “The next time you post an honor guard, I would expect the chosen men to be of a higher caliber. If they want to guard me, then they had better keep up with me in all departments.”
The sergeant’s face, which has started so haughty and self-assured, began to melt into a slippery mass of confusion. With van Clynne in control, Jake’s presence was only an unnecessary complication; he was best off slipping away.
Except that the bullet had flown from his hand before van Clynne could grab it. Now where was it?”
On hands and knees, Jake scoured the ground in search of the ball as van Clynne continued to harangued the sergeant. The Dutchman had a special quality about him when he really got going. Here was a man who might sell London Bridge back to the king.
Ah, but could he sell it to Miss Pinkelton, who must be the redheaded girl at the very far end of the block? What other young woman would be dressed so smartly this early in the day, and walking here besides? The sergeant – and the nearby whaleboat – had obviously been waiting for her, not van Clynne.
Jake saw the girl with one eye; with the other he spotted the bullet in the dust. He scooped it up and jumped to his feet.
“Now that I see you are in good hands,” he told van Clynne, “I’ll be taking my leave. General Bacon is expecting me.” He reached into his pocket and took out a blank paper; as he handed it to van Clynne he passed the bullet along with it. “You’ll give General Howe my note?”
“Oh, yes,” said van Clynne.
“Let me see that,” said the sergeant, grabbing at the paper.
/> The bullet rolled from van Clynne’s palm down his jacket sleeve well before he let go of the paper. The sergeant opened the scrap furiously – only to discover it was blank.
“Naturally,” said Jake. “You don’t think I’m going to risk something like that falling into rebel hands. They’re all around us, even here.”
There was a definite magic ink craze in the colonies, the sergeant concluded; next he would find one used for a shopping list. But there was nothing to do but give it to van Clynne.
“Row him out to the general. I’m sure he’ll find him a comfortable companion.”
“I’m not leaving this spot without an apology,” said van Clynne. “My friend was knocked down and I was treated most rudely. I deserve and apology, and possibly restitution.”
“Don’t push your luck,” said the sergeant.
Though van Clynne’s sense of dignity had little need for prodding, he continued to protest as part of a delaying tactic initiated by certain frantic hand signals and gestures Jake made before he ran off down the street.
The secret agent, careful to block Miss Pinkleton’s view of the confrontation, doffed his hat with a sweeping gesture as she approached. Red curls flowed from beneath her bonnet, and her light purple dress flared in a satiny glow from her hips. She might be sixteen. Certainly she had not wielded her fan often, as he could tell from the awkward way she unfolded it and tried to flutter it before her face.
“Miss Melanie Pinkleton?”
“Yes,” she replied in a bashful voice.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said Jake as he straightened. “I am Jake Gibbs, on special assignment to General Howe.
“Oh,” said the young woman. “Pleased to meet you.”
Jake stood closer, speaking in confidential tones. He was more than a foot taller than she was; her body was so slight he could easily have tucked her under and arm and carried her away.
But these operations required a certain delicacy, with Howe’s guards only a half block away.
“The general has asked me to speak with you confidentially.”
“I’m on my way to see him now.”
“Here, quickly, come this way with me,” Jake said, tugging her arm in the direction of a side street.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Please,” said Jake, smiling with all of his might. “You would not wish to present a scene on ship, would you?”
A look came over her face, the dark threatening cloud that spoils a perfect summer afternoon. “It’s her, isn’t it?” Mrs. Loring.”
Jake nodded solemnly. Miss Melanie Pinkelton suddenly appeared close to tears.
“He told me he was going to break it off with her,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Come with me, Melanie,” said Jake, gently wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “Let us talk for a bit in private. I know a fine tavern nearby, run by a friend of mine, a certain Paul Smith.”
“He’s a rebel.”
“Well,” said Jake, “we wouldn’t want to hold that against him, would we?”
Undoubtedly, a philosopher of the four humors basic to human life would be able to explain van Clynne’s fear of the ocean as an imbalance relating to the overabundance of liquid in his person; like naturally repels like, and thus he seeks to avoid it at all cost. Van Clynne’s own theory related to a childhood memory – he had been dropped into a large barrel of water as a child and held down for several minutes, and ever since worried about being drowned.
The squire is a man of business and not science, and thus will be forgiven for mistaking the origin of his fear. The relevance here, however, is that once in the rowboat, he could think of nothing but that event, and as a result, his knees began shaking so badly the sergeant charged with rowing him to Howe demanded to know what the problem was.
“Yer gonna shake us right into the water, laddie. Get a grip on your knees.”
Van Clynne nodded weakly and pulled them together with his hands.
“First time out in a boat?”
Van Clynne shook his head. With even this gentle motion his stomach threatened evasive maneuvers.
“First time with a Scotsman, I daresay,” ventured the sergeant. “Yer in good hands, laddie – never lost one yet.”
Van Clynne gave him a brief, weak smile, his eyes still locked on the floorboards. The wood, though wet, allowed him at least a vague fantasy that he was on the solid ground of an old tavern.
“Have ya seen a bonnet as smart as this one?” offered the Scotsman, trying to divert van Clynne’s attention. He was referring to his headgear, one of the most distinctive marks of his unit, the 42 Royal Highland Regiment of Foot; aka the Black Watch. A round, overgrown beanie with a plaid band and a large, fuzzy crown that shot up above the wearer’s head, it looked as if an exotic, blue-skinned animal had encamped on his head.
The oarsman’s idea of stealing the Dutchman’s attention from the sea was a good one, and might have worked especially well in this case, given van Clynne’s strong feelings on the subject of hats. Unfortunately, his question had the effect of drawing van Clynne’s eyes to his head – and the vast blue ocean behind it.
In no more than a second, the squire’s view changed from sea green ocean to dark, blank space. Van Clynne had fainted.
“In short, miss, the general is a rogue.” Jake pushed her coffee cup aside – for some reason, Paul Smith’s inn was always out of tea – and leaned across the table to take her hands. “You affections are wasted on him.”
“But he is so handsome and ...” Her voice trailed off.
“And you love him?”
She started crying again. Jake took a new handkerchief and pressed it gently against her cheeks.
Now the reader will undoubtedly protest that Jake Gibbs calling another man a rogue was but the latest chapter in the famous history of pot and kettle. But Jake is not without his moral codes, and he is not being completely hypocritical here, given the girl’s tender age. Besides, he has a much larger purpose in mind.
“I wonder if this whole episode is not the story of our country in a nutshell,” said Jake, helping her dry her tears. “The British beguile us, take what they want, and leave us for someone else.”
“The girl, gaining control of herself, looked at him coldly. “You’re a rebel, aren’t you?”
“A patriot, perhaps, not a rebel, miss,” he said, smiling. “But what I’ve told you about the general is true enough. He has a wife at home, you know, and many mistresses. Mrs. Loring is just the most infamous.”
“We’ve sworn allegiance to the King!”
“Does that mean we should let the British treat us as chattel? Should we be subservient to their foulest desires? Don’t we owe allegiance to ourselves first?”
“You speak well, sir. I fear you’re merely trying to take advantage of me, like the general.”
Jake rose to go. “Not at all. But if you’re more interested in love than politics, you might find Smith’s lad there of some interest. And about your own age.”
Miss Melanie Pinkleton frowned, but Jake noted that she not only stayed seated as he walked toward the door, but motioned to the boy that her cup in was in need of refilling.
“God, he’s a plump one.”
“I don’t see why we’re fighting for these Tories. They’re living off the fat of the land, and we barely get a lime every other week.”
“Sharp now, don’t drop him. Watch it!”
Van Clynne plunged unceremoniously to the deck of the flagship. The seamen undid the ropes they had used to hoist him, leaving him sprawled like a beached octopus.”
The fall to the deck caused a slight concussion and headache; it also raised certain voices in van Clynne’s head, most prominent among them those of his father and grandfather, who told him to get off his duff and get on with the business of winning back the family estate.
Van Clynne was helped to his feet by a member of the general’s guard. The soldier escorted him to the quarterdec
k of the Eagle, where Howe sat on a couch under a red-striped tarpaulin before the captain’s quarters. He looked for all the world as if he were enjoying breakfast on his country estate, having just come in from the hunt. A soldier stood behind him as a waiter; two guards were a few yards back. Otherwise the quarterdeck was empty. The ship itself had only a bare skeleton crew aboard.
Many people have had their criticisms of General Howe, but no one has ever claimed he was not a gentleman of the highest order. After his visitor was announced as an important messenger from the Canadian provinces, Howe raised his hand and with a sweeping invitation asked van Clynne is he had “supped.”
“No, sir,” said the Dutchman, till not recovered from his journey. “It is a bit early in the morning for dinner.”
“Well, join me anyway,” said the general. “My officers are seeing to their troops, and my brother is off on inspection. I do not like to eat alone. I am awaiting a visitor, but you can keep me company until then.”
“Miss Pinkleton had been delayed,” said van Clynne unwisely. The general’s face clouded as the Dutchman fished for an alibi. “There was some sort of commotion on shore. I heard several women fighting, I believe.”
“Damn. It was Mrs. Loring, wasn’t it? They saw each other, did they?”
Van Clynne shrugged. “Well, come sit with me. Damn. Women will be my ruin.”
“I agree with that, sir. Most heartily. Men are always too generous in their affections, and it leads us to vulnerability.”
Jakes instructions had been simple and direct – get aboard, give Howe the bullet, and come back to New York as quickly as possible. But several things occurred to van Clynne at the moment. First, that this might be an opportunity to gain valuable intelligence from the general about his battle plans, information that General Washington would cherish so deeply that the return of his land would be beyond question. Second, Jake had no legal authority over him. Third, even if he were still feeling a bit seasick, that was no reason not to eat something.
