The Silver Bullet (2 page)

He didn't need them to lead him through the streets and then the half mile or so south of town; he was familiar enough with the Pastures, having gone there some years before while traveling with his father as assistant and secretary. He especially loathed its overwrought Chippendale roof railing, which crowned a pretentious and yet somehow frumpy Georgian-style house. To Jake, who had been in Britain but four years before, the Pastures was at best a third-rate copy of a third-rate English country home, hardly worthy of a true democrat. Especially if the democrat was of Dutch extraction.

But then Jake was always finding the Dutch a confused and confusing race.

"Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs."

Jake extended his hand to meet Flanagan's as the officer walked across the large study where he'd been waiting. The colonel, in his mid-fifties, was dressed in a well-tailored blue and white uniform, with officer's silver epaulettes. Stocky and several inches shorter than Jake, he wore a powdered bag wig, which had gone more or less out of fashion even in the provincial cities with the onset of war. But then Jake didn't think he'd been asked here to comment on Flanagan's coiffure. He stood stiffly in front of the proffered chair and asked why he had been sent for.

"Relax a moment," replied Flanagan. "Would you like a drink? I'm sure the general would insist."

Schuyler's taste in Madeira was legendary, but Jake declined. Sarah was waiting. Flanagan went to the sideboard and poured himself a half-glass.

"You've heard, of course, that General Schuyler has countered the New Englanders and their slander," Flanagan said as he carefully measured his drink. "There are a few i's to be dotted, but Gates is out and the old man is back. You can count on that. General Washington himself is lobbying on his behalf."

Flanagan's comment about the New Englanders, though true enough, was a bit of a faux pas — born in Philadelphia, Jake had spent much time in Massachusetts and had originally been enlisted as an officer in a Massachusetts regiment. No matter where his superiors lined up politically, he felt close to the New Englanders whose spirit had first imbibed him with a lust for freedom. But he said nothing.

"He's standing for state governor as well, you know," added Flanagan, whether to try and awe him or make idle conversation, Jake couldn't be sure. "He'll win that battle, too."

"No doubt. So why precisely am I here, Colonel?"

Until now, Flanagan's manner had been anything but impressive; Jake theorized he was merely trying to draw out the latest command gossip. But as Flanagan turned to answer Jake's question, he seemed to grow several inches. His face, which had appeared a bit flaccid and tired, now suddenly looked vigorous and determined. Jake had seen this in many officers promoted from the working classes because of merit in the field — they were awkward in the drawing rooms, but sharp swords in battle.

"The Northern Department has need of the Revolution's finest spy," said Flanagan. "General Washington directed General Greene to find you. He in turn sent word that you would be here — a most fortunate coincidence."

"With all due respect, Colonel," said Jake, "I'm not in the habit of spending my time on local conspiracies. I do not want to sound like I have an inflated head, but surely there are other men available for your local problems."

"This is not a local problem." Flanagan's voice had the measured cadence of a man used to giving orders. "The Revolution is at stake."

Jake wasn't swayed at all. Inevitably, when someone used such inflated terms, the job turned out to be the simple apprehension of a merchant who sold a few grains of contraband tea on the side. "Well, if it's only that," he said sarcastically.

But Flanagan's voice, instead of cracking with fury at being found out, dropped to a bare whisper. "Burgoyne is planning an invasion down the Hudson. We don't know when; we don't know by what route. If we cannot stop him, the continent will be split in two."

A bucket of snow could not have sobered Jake's disposition more effectively. As he waited for Flanagan to continue, he felt his heart start to pump. A certain itch developed in his thigh muscles, and his senses sharpened so acutely that a piece of dust could not fall in the room without his being aware of it. For if certain physiques are made by nature for certain tasks, Jake's was tuned for facing danger.

"We need intelligence on the British plans," said Flanagan. "We need it as soon as possible — it already may be too late. Our forces are too small to be spread out across the entire state. If we do not know the proper route, and when to expect them, we will surely be beaten. Ticonderoga will fall, then Saratoga — and the British will stand at the head of the Hudson. All will be threatened, including Albany."

Jake folded his arms across his chest as he considered the difficulties of a mission north. "There must be a dozen men under your command who are more familiar with the territory between here and Canada," he said. "And if time is of the essence —"

"I'm not trying to flatter you, but given the critical nature, we must have someone whose success is guaranteed. I'm not," Flanagan added in a softer, very measured voice, "asking you to volunteer. Your command arrangements have already been changed."

He reached into the inside of his brocaded vest and pulled out several folded sheets of paper. "You have been assigned special duty under General Schuyler and are to act exclusively as his agent until further notice from the commander-in-chief."

Jake took the papers and saw immediately that the first was written in General Greene's neat if flowery hand. The opening sentence set it out as authentic: "Considering the happy consequences of such an important and critical operation and the great need for thoughtful but timely accommodation..." The overwrought tone was unmistakable; General Greene couldn't write a requisition without referring to the glorious potential of the American future, and throwing in a few references to Swift and Locke.

The second sheet was an adjunct's note approving the temporary posting in the Northern Department; the third a paymaster's notation for funds that would be available for the mission. But the clincher was a letter from Joseph Reed, which would have been dictated by General Washington himself. The sum of this bundle of papers was that Jake had been assigned to the Northern Department "indefinitely" for "special and diverse missions, as it shall please the commander of said department."

What the hell, had he been lost in some dice game?

Jake handed the papers back. "This isn't merely a matter of politics with Gates, is it?"

"I'm not a political man, Colonel," said Flanagan, making a face as if he'd just eaten a peach out of season. "I was a farmer before the war, and I share your displeasure for backroom maneuverings. But I assure you that General Schuyler would not have gone to the lengths he did to obtain your services if they were not critical."

Nor would General Washington or General Greene have agreed, Jake realized. There was no arguing the strategic importance of defeating a British attack before it reached Albany. Indeed, if Burgoyne were to succeed and, at the same time, General Howe were to attack northwards from New York, all the land along the river would have to be abandoned. The Revolution would be strangled in the Middle States, and possibly in the entire country. With the British controlling the Atlantic and blocking the Hudson, there would be no way for the south to communicate with New England — Liberty would die a slow, withering death.

But Canada — good God!

"Colonel, Governor Carleton put a hundred crowns on my head," said Jake. "I'll be shot as soon as I reach Montreal. It's not that I'm afraid; it's just that I'm liable to be found out before I gather the intelligence and can return; the mission will fail."

Well all right, he admitted to himself — he was a little afraid. But that never stopped him.

"You've faced these sorts of difficulties before," said Flanagan. "I understand that you snuck into Quebec and returned with a lock of Carleton's hair, stolen from his bed chamber."

"A distortion," said Jake, who despite the seriousness of the moment suppressed a smile at the memory. He'd actually taken the governor's wig, using it as part of a disguise to leave the enemy city in broad daylight.

"There are signs that the invasion will be launched within a week or ten days," said Flanagan. "If we don't know the route by then, we're lost. Even now, I have doubts about getting our forces in place."

"He has to come down the lakes. It's the only way he can move a large army."

"But which side?" asked the colonel. "And when does he leave? With how many men, and what will be their organization? And who —"

"It's quite all right," said Jake. "I know what you need. But I worry that you may be depending too much on one man, and perhaps the wrong one at that."

"Nonsense. If you can't pull this off, no one can. I have a fresh horse waiting out front. You'll find some money, papers and a map in the saddlebags. Anything else you need will be readily provided."

Jake Stewart Gibbs stayed silent for a minute, his eyes fixed on the hands of the study's ornate grandfather clock. It was just about to strike midnight. Neither he nor the colonel spoke as the last seconds clicked off and the room shook with the deep, sonorous tones.

A condemned man sticking his tongue out at the executioner would find more mercy than Jake if he were captured in Canada. Even disguised, he could not count on passing unrecognized in Montreal or Quebec, as he so often did in New York City; not only would many of the local inhabitants remember him, but his profile was all too familiar to the governor himself.

Undoubtedly General Washington had weighed these dangers and decided to risk sending him nonetheless. The war stood at its most critical juncture. Trenton notwithstanding, the winter had been a difficult one. To lose Ticonderoga — let alone Albany — would be a crushing blow.

"I hope this is a good horse you've gotten me," said Jake when the chimes came to an end. "The last time I went to Canada I ended up traveling half the way on foot."

-Chapter Two-

Wherein, the journey begins, with sad leave taking of the widow Sarah and a misplaced confidence in the state of local security.

F
lanagan didn't expect
Jake to leave until morning, but the agent was one of that small class of men who can go for days with only a few winks of sleep. He did not intend to delay his start with anything approaching a full night's rest, and therefore launched his mission the second he left the Pastures, setting out on the best road north.

Which, not coincidentally, was the same road he had traveled to meet the colonel and which, not surprisingly, led him straight through Albany to Sarah's father's inn, The Golden Peacock.

Some day, Jake thought as he got off his horse, he must ask Mr. Roberts what the point of a golden but nonetheless monochromatic peacock would be, since the bird's whole reason for existence was the rainbow of colors at its tail. He hoped tonight, however, to avoid the opportunity to raise the question. Mr. Roberts was a powerfully long-winded speaker, and the explanation for the tavern's name would undoubtedly fill the sails of a fleet's worth of frigates. It would also make it difficult to sneak upstairs and take proper leave of Sarah, as he was honor-bound to do.

Jake was in luck, in a way — the front door was bolted, with a long board across it to prevent entry. This meant that all inside had gone to sleep, the Albany innkeeper taking precautions that once would have been shown only on the frontier.

The building was simple if sturdy, constructed of two stories; the room where Sarah would be waiting was in the rear. This could be easily reached from the back of Jake's new horse, a fine, athletic and, more importantly, very tall beast. There were but two complications: First, the glass window at the outside and then the secured shutter inside would have to be opened as quietly as possible. Second, and the reason stealth was required, Sarah's two sisters would be sleeping with her, and might cry out in alarm — or perhaps jealousy — if woken.

The horse Flanagan had provided was undoubtedly fleet of foot, but it turned out to be a less than ideal ladder. Though hitched to a nearby post, the animal shifted uneasily as Jake rose on its back. He cursed silently as he tried to steady himself against the side of the building with one hand and pry open the window with the other.

Fortunately, the laws of physics regarding levers and pulleys were working in his favor. Jake's long hunting knife made as a handy and efficient a machine as any the Romans had ever used, and the ropes inside the window casement handled their job with equal vigor. The window flicked upwards like a startled bird taking flight. Jake took this as a good sign — Sarah had no doubt greased the way for him.

With such optimistic portents, he did not fret when the horse darted to the side, leaving him hanging by his fingers on the sill. The animal was, after all, tied and would be waiting when he returned.

The bricks in the building were smoothly laid, with mortar placed smartly and quite thickly; a toehold was impossible. No matter. Jake had entered many a window at a greater height under much more dire circumstances, without the promise of so great a reward — placing the knife in his teeth, he pushed with his arms and shoulders to snatch his knees up on the ledge, using such strength that a lesser house might have fallen to the ground. Kneeling inside the window on the casement, half inside the house, Jake found the shutters inexplicably fastened. This was but a minor annoyance; once more the knife did good service, slipping the wooden fastener with such ease that Jake, in a more leisurely moment, would have considered whether the deer-antler handle housed a beneficent spirit.