The Silver Bullet (35 page)

“
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 quarterdeck 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.

And last but not least, anything he could do to delay the torture of another water crossing was well worth the effort or risk.

So he sat down to dine with General Howe, and with the first whiff of food felt his stomach undertake a remarkable recovery. Indeed, the plate had lain on the table no more than half a minute before van Clynne allowed as how perhaps he was feeling a bit hungry after all. The general smiled, and instructed his man to bring another helping. The food was rabbit, skillfully cooked in what the general claimed was a French style, slowly roasted on a spit.

“
Is that so?”

“
Yes, and a bit of wild parsley, I dare say, would add more flavor.”

Howe was pleased by the fact that he was eating in a style that owed it origins not to a cowardly if formidable enemy, but one that had been defeated more than a hundred years before. His mood grew steadily expansive, aided by several draughts of what he called his “morning Madeira.” Within half an hour he had forgotten his disappointing new mistress completely.

Van Clynne, too, began to feel more and more in command of the situation. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he envisioned himself as being in a position to change the course of the war, not merely with the message he was delivering, but with his sharp business sense. For what else is war by a negotiation brought to its extreme? And who was this man sitting across from him but the head negotiator for the other side, as least in this section of the continent? A man strongly partial to the American side, according to all reports.

Two eminent men of business, sitting down to supper – untold fortuned had been made in this way.

Who among us has not been carried away by such grand visions? Especially when the wine is good and flowing so freely?

“
Is this not the best wine you’ve tasted in the colonies?” Howe demanded as they paused, waiting for their chocolate.

“
Begging your pardon, sir, but wine is wine. The Portuguese are experts at it, but it is just a fashion. Now ale – ale is altogether an art.”

“
Ale? That’s a commoner’s drink.”

“
On the contrary. It has been blessed by kings, even in your great country. Why, it came from the Egyptians themselves – I have it on good authority that their pyramid-shaped temples were actually brew houses.”

“
Indeed,” said Howe. He was not used to finding underlings so knowledgeable or agreeable.

“
Do you have any aboard?”

“
Pyramids?”

“
Good British ale, General,” said van Clynne, bumping up Howe’s patriotism. “This drink the Portuguese make – well, it will do for breakfast, I suppose, but I have always wondered what the English could do if they decided to be grape growers. Then we would have wine. You have only to taste British ale and you understand perfection. But I wonder if the Portuguese hold back with the wine they ship out of their country. I tell you, sir, I don’t fully trust them. They are very warlike.”

“
Warlike?”

“
Naturally aggressive. I wonder if they aren’t using some of their islands as a base for spying on England. I have often thought of how they might be defeated in a war. I would very much like to hear your famous tactical skills applied to such a problem.

“
A flanking assault, of course,” said Howe, his voice assume the strong tone of a man born to lead troops to battle – not to mention draw vast squiggles and arrows on oversized maps. “Sailor, a cask of the best ale on deck immediately! And find out where our chocolate is.”

-Chapter Thirty-

Wherein, Jake arranges a reception for the British messenger Herstraw.

W
hatever the state
of Revolutionary fervor in New York City prior to its invasion, its capture by the British greatly amplified the presence of Tories there. By now the city had become a safe haven for all manner of Loyalists. In direct proportion it became inhospitable to true patriots. But this did not mean there were none left among its citizens. On the contrary. Many of the vast population, especially the lower rungs of working people, stood by Liberty’s flame, though they’d taken the precaution of hiding it beneath a bushel basket. And there were still Sons of Liberty about, as well as a good number of regular spies – one of whom Jake was on his way to contact.

The meeting place will surprise many students of New York politics, for it was nowhere else than the coffeehouse of James Rivington. This is the same Rivington who publishes the Gazette, that hideous newspaper that has given vent to the most evil mutterings against the Cause of Freedom imaginable.

So how, then to explain that Rivington’s was the headquarters for one of General Washington’s most accomplished spies, Culper Junior? How to explain that this Culper Junior – as he remains under cover, we will use only his code name – worked for Rivington and, by some accounts, owned half the coffee shop with him? Was it merely a perfect cover? Was Rivington, a notoriously loudmouthed British apologist, a double agent? Or a fool?

Jake wasn’t sure. He knew only that Culper Junior was completely loyal to the Cause. Beyond that, the coffeehouse was a perfect place to set up shop as a spy; not only was it the preferred place for Royalists to gather and discuss business, but nearly every British officer in the city of any importance spent some part of his day there. Any child with half a wit could gather a full dossier simply by wandering among the tables.

Culper Junior was neither a child nor someone possessing only half a wit. He noticed Jake at the door amid the early morning crowd immediately, and arranged to have one of his lads present him with a note directly: “Next to Coffeehouse Bridge. Five minutes.”

The Coffeehouse Bridge is not a bridge at all, but rather a long wooden platform running down Wall Street for about a block between Dock and Queen streets. Ordinarily it is used for auctions: the reader might envision it as a stage set in the middle of an area convenient for commerce, and not be far wrong.

Exactly five minutes after he had taken up his station, Jake was met by the small boy who had handed him the note in Rivington’s. “Met” was not quite precise; this was a clever lad, who took the precaution of approaching Jake with mock nonchalance. Suddenly darting toward him, he tugged at Jake’s shirt as if stealing something and ran away. Jake marveled at the ruse – there was nothing in his shirt to steal, of course – and charged through the traffic with mock abandon.

The boy was quite fast, and his sudden bursts left Jake winded by the time they reached the alley where his appointment would be kept. The lad stopped short and pointed to a door. Jake smiled, patted him on the head and tossed him two pence as he opened it.

With this much preparation to keep them from being detected, Jake felt his confidence growing that this difficult business would be quickly concluded. Imagine the surprise and chagrin, therefore, when he was met inside the door by a German Jaeger and his bayonet point.

Jake was no weaponless; besides the pocket pistol, he had his large officer’s pistol in the side of his belt. But it was not primed, and in any event, by the time he retrieved it the Hessian would have stitched a decorative five-cornered star pattern on his chest. Discretion, therefore, was called for – Jake smiled, held his hands out as a sign of error and no harm done. His mind worked desperately for the few German words he knew; “mistake” must be among them, but for the moment the only one he could recall with any certainty was
bier
, obviously inappropriate.

The mercenary held his position but did not advance. Jake reached back for the door latch and realized that either it had changed shape and location, or another soldier with his bayonet extended was standing behind him. Slowly and as calmly as possible, he took a step to the side, offering a sign of surrender with his hands. He still had his forged British warrants and identity papers; surely he could work this out given time.

Granted, time was not one of his most plentiful commodities. He consoled himself by noting that at least van Clynne would be halfway back from the ship by now.

“
The trick is in the malt,” van Clynne said, swirling his mug around, then holding the cup toward the general. “You see the toasted color? That is all flavor, sir. All flavor, I assure you.”

The general studied the liquid, then took a sip. He swished it around his mouth as van Clynne had demonstrated, rolling his tongue first to one side, then the other before swallowing.

“
I never understood that there was so much science to drinking beer,” said Howe.

“
It is a great, deliberative science,” said van Clynne, signaling to the sailor to refill their glasses. “What’s more, it is an art.”

“
You don’t have to be anywhere in particular?”

“
General, I am completely at your disposal.”

“
Very good,” said Howe, reaching for his mug. “Very good. You shall join my officers in a small discussion. You can tell us what you’ve seen of the Neutral Ground and its defenses. Clinton in particular – and antidote to his pomposity would be very welcome, I dare say.”

“
With pleasure, sir; with pleasure.”

Jake had backed himself completely to the wall. There were now four Hessians guarding him. The men wore green and red uniforms, and would have been identified by Jake as members of the Hesse-Cassel Field Jaeger Corps, a crack unit composed primarily of hunters and riflemen who had much the same reputation for toughness and accuracy in shooting as the frontier elements of the Pennsylvania militia.

Except for one small detail, which loomed large in the well-trained eye of the patriot agents: they had bayonets.

The bayonet is a most deadly and efficient weapon; theoreticians of warfare claim with much validity that it, not the bullet, it the true vanquisher on the battlefield. But the bayonet was not typically fixed to a rifle, which was the jaegers weapon of choice. Nor were these rifles – the knives had their stems slotted into standard-issue British Brown Bess muskets.