The Silver Bullet (15 page)

The messenger was on his way to an inn near Fort Hubbardton, had a head start, and was on horseback. The only way to catch up was to find transportation on Lake Champlain, but that was not going to be an easy matter. As the battle he had witnessed on the way north attested, the British had already had control of much of the northern reaches of the waterway.

Perhaps he could find a very small boat farther south that would escape detection. Of some consolation was the fact that Herstraw – if he played the role of a poor farmer, as he told Burgoyne – would probably not go on the lake himself, though he would stick to the roads along it, where he could count on finding British assistance if needed. So at least Jake would have a strong notion of where to find him before Bull’s head.

Another complication was the fact that Jake had left nearly all his weapons back at Marie’s homestead. The American still had his small pocketknife, but that couldn’t be counted on for anything but popping a blister. And his only gun was the four-barreled Segallas – an impressive and efficient pocket pistol, but unfortunately of limited range and firepower.

It didn’t matter – he would kill the British spy with his bare hands if he had to.

The farmer urged his horse onward with a never-ending cacophony of clicks, speaking some language only he and the horse understood. The animal moved faster and faster; perhaps the farmer was promising him more oats.

And then without warning they stopped dead on the road. Jake pitched forward in a tumble. Expecting the worst, he reached for his Segallas and peeked up over the side board.

He was astounded to see the roadway before them empty. Indeed, the front of the cart itself was empty. The farmer had left it was running toward the side of the road.

The American spy watched with curiosity as the Frenchman went to a small collection of stones by the side of the road and proceeded to cross himself, kneel and bow his head. He stayed in front of the shrine – a crude cross about two feet tall stood beyond the stones – for a good five minutes before jumping up and returning to the cart on a dead run. The horse neighed, the Frenchman clicked, and they were once more on their way, flying south on the road for several more miles before the entire drama was once more repeated.

The third time was too much for Jake.

“
We’re never going to get anywhere if you keep stopping every few minutes to pray,” he said. “Can’t you just say amen or something and get one with it?”

The farmer explained, or rather didn’t explain, in very quick French, that it was a holy obligation to stop at a martyr’s shrine and pray.”

“
Look,” said Jake finally, a second crown in one hand and the Segallas in the other, “here’s the deal. Another crown if you don’t stop, two bullets if you do.”

The man objected that his faith had been questioned, and launched into a vigorous defense of the holy fathers whose blood had consecrated this ground. It took every ounce of Jake’s self-restraint not to shoot the man.

Eventually a compromise was reached – the farmer would say a prayer as he passed each shrine, and Jake would add two crowns to the price of passage.

He grumbled as he handed over the money, due in advance. But though it depleted his purse, the new arrangement considerably speeded his progress, and by midday they had reached the small settlement outside Fort Chambly, the British post east of Montreal on the Richelieu. It wasn’t much of a fort as such things went – some tall blockhouses and stockades, but it was formidable enough given the terrain and his own circumstances. Jake’s muddied finery drew stares in the tiny village west of the embattlements, and he realized he would have to find more suitable clothing if he hoped to pass south without being detained and questioned.

The suit had cost Marie a good deal in Montreal, but even clean it would be next to worthless here, there being few balls to attend. Nor was it possible to just walk into a tailor shop and buy new clothes. What he needed was a fellow of roughly the same height and build who could supply, ideally, a hunting shirt.

Someone, in fact, similar to the man they were just passing on the highway, walking in the opposite direction. His sullen manner announced him as a
coureur de bois
, a woods runner or frontiersman; a trapper. His toque with its tassel announced him as decidedly French. He was wearing a homemade hunting shirt, cut from a piece of deerskin and imperfectly tanned. Most of the fringe was missing from one sleeve and the right side had been badly singed – a more perfect garment could not have existed in all of Canada.

Jake hopped from the cart, telling the driver he would meet him on the road south of the fort.

Theoretically, Jake could just pump the trapper, pummel him and take his coat. But being as how he was a visitor in this land, with some indeterminate portion of the army already after him, he decided to take a cautious and considerably more honorable approach and offer to buy it. The shirt was worth no more than a crown, if that; he’d give him two guineas for it and throw in his own jacket besides. He had no particular relish for the hat, but would take it if necessary to sweeten the deal.

But to bargain with the man, he first had to reach him. The trapper walked with a great stride, and Jake trotted and then broke into a full run to catch up.

“
Excuse me,” he shouted as the man turned down a small path that had appeared invisible until he stepped on it. “I wonder if I could have a word.”

The man made no sign of having heard him.

“
Sir,” said Jake, running up behind him. “
Monsieur, excusez-moi. Un moment, s‘il vous plait!”

The trapper answered by turning quickly – and flashing a knife.

“
Que diable voulez-vous? Laissez-moi tranquille!”
the man shouted. What the devil do you want? Leave me alone.

“
Just a quick question,” said Jake, stopping short.

“
I hate the English and their questions!” said the man in French.

“
I agree with you there.”

Apparently, this was not quite the answer the man desired – he lunged forward with his knife.

The polite approach having failed, Jake dodged to the side and grabbed his assailant’s outstretched arm. While his being the same size as Jake was essential for the business end of their transaction, it made negotiations difficult – the trapper’s strength was similarly portioned, and it took a good amount of wrestling back and forth before the knife fell away.

This was far from the end of the conflict. The trapper managed to trip Jake and they fell together to the ground. Two kicks in his flanks and Jake rolled desperately away, only to find the man’s hands firmly around his neck.

Choking, Jake grabbed his Segallas from his pocket and pounded the brute’s temple with it. Somehow, the trapper realized that he was being show leniency and let go; Jake rose shakily to his feet, coughing as he caught his breath.

“
Your anger would be much better directed toward the British, my friend,” Jake told him in French. “I’m an American patriot.”

“
So?” The man answered in English.

“
I want to make a deal for your coat. I need to travel south,” said Jake. “And I’d prefer not to stand out with all these British soldiers about.”

“
I hate the damned British,” said the man.

“
As do I.”

“
They’ve cheated me of my meat. I was not even paid. All I have left is my canoe.”

“
Perhaps, if we were traveling in the same direction,” said Jake, sensing the possibility of an arrangement, “we could establish a coalition to our mutual benefit. How much was the meat worth?”

“
I don’t need your money,” said the trapper.

But those are the words one speaks only as a precursor to true deal-making. For a sum of three guineas and ten shillings, the trapper agreed to give him new clothes and take him south on the river and then the lake, all the way to American lines. Besides the coins, his motivation seemed to be some modicum of revenge against the soldiers.

Their negotiations concluded, the man’s manner changed. Softened was not quite the word, but the conclusion of the bargain initiated something akin to friendship. Men who live in the woods have a certain code of business that differs greatly from that followed in the city. It is not merely a matter of honor, but of fellowship, to conclude a deal with someone as if more than money or fur skins were at stake.

The trapper called himself Leal le Cougar, or the Cougar. Jake realized only gradually that
le couguar
was not a nickname but rather an acknowledgement of blood lines. For Leal was not fully French but part Indian, a descendant of the Black Minqua who had once populated the north-central stretches of the province of New York. These Indians – called the Eire or cat nation by fellow Iroquoian speakers – had been devastated by war with the Five Nations prior to the arrival of whites in the province. Those who had not been killed or adopted by the victorious tribes were scattered widely, ghostly remnants of a once-proud and thriving people.

His canoe and gear had been stowed a short distance away, along the bank of a creek that led to the river. Leal gave Jake a short woolen jacket and smock made of white kersey, along with some leggings that fell over his shoes; he lacked only the addition of a toque to appear quite a Wildman. This was soon supplied, and together they put the dugout canoe into the water and set off.

They pulled onto a small bed of sand along the shoreline to spend the night. After helping gather wood for a fire, Jake felt compelled to apologize for the way in which they’d met. He admired the man’s courage and decision to help him; he was impressed by his strength and knowledge of the woods.

Leal nodded but said nothing.

Dinner consisted of green berries, some hard bread, and fish they caught in a small pool near the stream bed. Capturing the fish was not an easy task. The two men worked as a team, Jake armed with a large rock and Leal leaning over with a long, arrow like spear or harpoon, ready to pounce as soon as Jake let the rock fly. In theory, the blow was to stun the fish, making them easier to stab; the reality was that the splash and subsequent shock wave made them difficult to see and alerted others to stay clear. They managed to get only two before the light failed.

Leal insisted that his companion have the larger, though the adjective exaggerates its size. Jake compensated by taking less bread. He was famished, and it took all his willpower to eat the fish slowly, lest Leal offer him his own.

When they were done, Leal took out a pipe and a small bit of rope tobacco obviously obtained in trade from a soldier. Ordinarily, Jake did not smoke, but it would have been ill-mannered to refuse; he took a very short breath and even then fell to coughing.

The half-breed smiled, and took back the long, smooth pipe. “I bought this from a Dutchman,” he said in English before falling silent again.

They were quiet a long time before Leal spoke again.

My mother’s mother was Erie, but I have some Delaware blood as well, two grandfathers back. The Delaware at the fathers of all in these lands, the ancient people. But there is no longer any respect for the grandfather tribe.

“
Do you see the stars above? The children have gone there. They go after dancing the bear dance. On the fifth night of the winter ceremony, the old men sing their song and wish for the same deliverance. Someday, I too will sing.”

Leal fell silent again, smoking. Jake, greatly fatigued, leaned down to the sand and began nodding off to sleep. The fire was warm on his face, and the woods behind him sheltered him from the wind.

He woke to find a heavy blanket thrown over him. Leal was sitting silently by the canoe. The sun had been up for at least an hour.

“
We must leave,” said the trapper. “We are not far from St. Jean, and it would be better to pass early.”

Jake nodded and took his station in front of the canoe. His stomach was empty, and though the hollow sensation sharpened his senses, still he would have liked at least a biscuit to soften the gnawing.

With every stroke of the paddles, the river widened; they were approaching the start of the lake. The shoreline to their right began to open, and all at once, as if part of a staged pageant, the settlement appeared. There were hundreds of soldiers and workers here, a veritable armada being fitted out for the pending invasion of New York.

It was as if the Royal Navy had taken up its great Atlantic fleet, miniaturized it by two-thirds, and set it down at the tip of Lake Champlain. The
Inflexible,
a ship capable of carrying twenty guns, sat at the head of the line, tugging and pulling in the running water. Behind her, men worked feverishly to outfit and arm a much newer craft, the
Royal George
. She would be dwarfed in the Atlantic, but here her twelve-pound iron cannon would batter anything the Americans could put against her.

The squadron included three ships that last year had belonged to the Americans – the
Washington
, the
Lee,
and the
New Jersey.
Directly in front of the fort – the sloping words were much less impressive than the navy, if that was any consolation – was a square, odd-looking ketch called
Thunderer,
a floating artillery battery designed to help break the walls of Ticonderoga.