The Silver Bullet (6 page)

Jake smiled but said nothing. The rattlesnake story – which had some vague elements of truth to it, since his family was in the apothecary business – was indeed pathetic, but it was supposed to be. This Dutchman was perfect, completely of a type most useful to a man in Jake’s profession. The more you puffed up their pride and let them think they were brilliant, the more they played the cooperative fool. Van Clynne was just the person to help him avoid notice as he crossed the border.

“
This beer – the brewer is not Dutch, I daresay,” grumbled van Clynne. “There was a time when every wife knew how to make ale, and every wife’s ale was nectar to the angels. Now – pfffff. Taste this. Taste it.”

“
You’ve finished your whole tankard already.”

“
Due to thirst only. I would not have another. No, no, under no circumstances, though my thirst does remain quite strong, sir, now that you mention it.”

“
I didn’t mention it. And I’m not going to buy you one.”

Van Clynne frowned, realizing there was more to this Mr. Gibbs than his silly hat or lame story foretold. Still, twenty crowns was twenty crowns, especially in British currency.

“
I suppose your friends will be waiting for us outside,” said Jake, draining his cup and rising to resume the journey. He was anxious to get moving.

“
I doubt it,” said van Clynne. “I know these fellows well. They’re cowards. Must be in the next county by now.”

But Jake proved to be the better judge of character. Pieter Gerk, armed with a fresh knife, accosted them halfway between the door and the paddock where the horses were tied. His sidekick Pohl was conspicuously absent.

Jake ducked just in time. Pohl missed and flew through the air spectacularly, though he was in no position to admire the trajectory. Jake reached up and knocked the man’s foot as he passed, altering his path enough to change what would have been a four-point landing into a one-point crash, that point being his head.

But Pohl was a robust man, with an extremely thick skull. Somewhat to Jake’s surprise, he managed not only to get up, but to punch him in the stomach when he approached. Jake fell back and pulled a small black pouch from under his belt where it had been secreted. As Pohl charged blindly toward him, he stepped aside and clamped his hand with the bag’s contents on Pohl’s nose.

This miscreant stood straight upright, temporarily paralyzed by scorpion powder. A flick of Jake’s wrist sent him in a heap to the dust.

In the meantime, van Clynne had stirred himself, knocking Gerk back against the tree and once again separating him from his knife. If the Dutchman was portly, he was spry for his size; his frame held a good deal of muscle along with the fat.

Jake grabbed the knife from the ground and surveyed the situation. He was sorry to have used the last of his paralyzing powder, but it would have lost its potency soon anyway.

“
I suppose we should give them their weapons back,” he suggested.

“
Give them back?”

“
Yes,” said Jake. “I wouldn’t want to be called a thief.” He bent the polished but poorly tempered steel into a curve with the flat of his palm. The display of arm strength had the intended effect on Gerk – his shudders made it clear he wouldn’t bother following, though Jake thought it prudent to toss the two halves of the pocket pistol and some shillings in the dirt for their troubles, just to show there were no hard feelings.”

“
Must be an English knife,” said van Clynne as they rode away. “They’re making the damn things so cheap these days.”

“
They certainly are,” said Jake.

Two hours later Jake began to question whether he had indeed chosen the right guide. He was by now well ahead of schedule, thanks to the remarkable shortcuts van Clynne was showing him. But this advantage in speed was coming at a heavy price – the Dutchman had a penchant for discourse.

Not discourse, precisely – complaint. His entire philosophy might be summarized thusly: The world had gone to hell in the past fifty years.

Actually, there were hints that the decline extended to the collapse of the tulip bulb market, but Jake didn’t care to interrupt the flow of words for an exact date. His companion was clearly a man who saw the tankard not only half empty, but one the verge of rusting through. Every portion of the world was in sorry shape – just now van Clynne was complaining that the fir trees were not nearly as green as they used to be.

His own thoughts wandering as a matter of self-preservation, Jake nearly missed the import of van Clynne’s sudden
harrumph
.

He looked up to see three men on horseback blocking their path. Adrenaline flushed into his body as he realized they were the same men – two whites and an Indian – whom he had unsuccessfully followed yesterday evening. Providence had delivered them to him.

It had also placed rifles in their hands, aimed sharply in his direction.

“
Good sirs,” said van Clynne lightly. “How can we be of assistance?”

“
You can start by handing over your worldly possessions,” said the pockmarked man – the same demon who had ordered the child’s death. His deerskin hunting shirt, fringed collar and cuffs showed signs of many hard scrapes.

His white companion was similarly dressed, though his clothes were considerably newer and not so sorely tried. He wore the look of a man who disdained these transactions.

The reader will remember that the previous day Jake had guessed that this man was a British officer. Today, Jake was at leisure to construct an entire narrative for the trio: The pockmarked man was a Tory loyalist and criminal, who thought the entire adventure was an excuse for robbery and murder. The second white was a British spy fresh from England, learning that the woods had their own cruel morality. The last of the group was an unattached Iroquois warrior, seeking glory but unsure of his course, let alone his companions.

While his eyes were glued to the trio, Jake’s hands were slipping unseen behind his coat to grasp the Styan handgun secreted at the back of his saddle. His two other pistols were in plain view at the front; loaded as always, they would be useful in their turn.

“
Now, now, gentlemen,” said van Clynne, his voice three times as cheery as it had been at any moment since he had left the tavern. “We have a letter from General Schuyler himself, a good Dutchman, guaranteeing us free passage.

Van Clynne, noting the smile and disdainful frown, hastened to add, “And his worship, Governor Carleton, likewise has granted us permission to travel. So sirs, I beg you –“

“
On your knees when you beg,” said the pockmarked man.

“
Claus van Clynne goes on his knees to no man!”

“
On your knees you swine.” The pockmarked man lifted his light cavalry musket toward van Clynne. His companions followed suit.

Frowning and grumbling heavily, van Clynne shifted on his horse, leaning over to comply.

“
You, too.” Pockmark gestured menacingly at Jake.

Jake nodded meekly, and leaned to the side of his horse as if dismounting. But as he did so, he swung the pistol up and got off a shot that added a fresh mark to the Tory’s face, this one brighter red than the others, tinged around the sides a dark black. It was the devil’s own sign, reserving the murderer for the special place in hell put aside for those who kill children.

As he dove to the ground, Jake pulled a fresh pistol from the saddle holster. He tumbled behind his horse, springing to his knees and pushing the gun forward as he pulled its trigger, throwing its bullet toward the disguised British officer.

In retrospect, Jake decided that it might have been better to miss, or merely wing the man, since he had already dropped his weapon in fright. The officer might have provided some information on British intentions and, at the very least, explained the details of his mission here. But there is no taking back vengeance once unleashed – the ball found its mark square in the man’s chest.

Jake had no time to second-guess himself at the moment, for he was now on the opposite side of his horse from his remaining gun. More critically, he was directly in the aim of the Iroquois brave.

In the next moment Jake heard a loud whizzing sound that he mistook for the approach of a bullet or maybe an angel, come to lead him to the river Styx.

But he was mistaken. Completely intact and no nearer to his Maker than he had been for many months, Jake rolled over to see the Indian flat on his back, his weapon unfired and his skull punctuated by a large tomahawk.

A tomahawk? Where had that come from?

This will cost you an extra five crowns,” said van Clynne, walking over.

“
What for?”

“
Physical exertion.” The Dutchman lowered himself with great difficulty and retrieved his hatchet from the brave’s skull. “And just after I’ve had it sharpened, too,” he said, glancing at the blade as he wiped it clean on the dead man’s leggings. “You know, there was a time when a blade stood up to usage. Now they are much too easily dulled.”

-
Chapter Five-

Wherein, the story proceeds northward, with various and sundry discussion of miscellaneous items, including the fine art of hatchet throwing.

J
ake was anxious
to continue on his mission, but prudence as well as duty required him to give the men a decent burial, even if they would not have returned the favor. Before laying them in their graves, Jake rifled their clothes as discreetly as possible, looking for papers or anything else that might give him more information about the task they had been assigned, if any. The only thing interesting he found was a Hawkins and Wilson smoothbore flintlock pistol. The British-made gun was a handsome weapon – General Washington himself owned a pair.

It was much too useful to be buried with the dead men – Jake stuck it in his saddlebag.

The Dutchman said very little as they went about the grim task of burying the men. Jake wondered what van Clynne made of them and their identities, whether he considered them mere bandits or disguised rangers, as Jake did. But there was no way to ask without inviting suspicion about his own identity and purpose.

Besides, Jake was too busy digging to talk: van Clynne’s contribution to the job became more and more theoretical as it proceeded.

The horses would fetch a decent price in Ticonderoga, but the Dutchman surprised Jake by letting them go free. Clearly this was a businessman who took only prudent risks. Allies or even enemies of this murderous trio might well recognize the horses, and pointed questions might not be easily turned away as this late attack.

Frowning as deeply as ever, van Clynne mounted his horse and waited impatiently as Jake said a short prayer commending the men to their fate. As he was sure they were going straight to hell, it was more in the way of thanksgiving than mourning.

Back on the road, the Dutchman’s tongue soon loosened. He began by complaining about the weather, which had turned very warm; he moved on to remarks about the thickness of the mosquitoes. In truth, the bugs were not thick at all, since it was only May, but logic had no bearing on van Clynne’s arguments, and if Jake had pointed this out, the Dutchman would instantly have found a dozen arguments to sustain his point. Jake kept his mouth shut, and presently, by some segue he couldn’t track, van Clynne was giving him a lengthy dissertation on the state of Indian affairs.

“
The fellow was an Iroquois from the Onondagas. A loner, but it is a bad sign nonetheless.”

“
He’s not a Mohawk?”

Van Clynne launched into the differences between the Maquas or Mohawks, who controlled the fur trade, and their Iroquois brothers to the west. The Mohawks called themselves “Ganiengehaga” meaning “the flint people” and referring to one of their stock trading items.

“
Have the Iroquois joined the British?” Jake asked, hoping his companion might yield some tidbits useful for Schuyler’s defense. If he was to be harangued all the way to Canada, he might as well try and make some use of it.”

“
Some yes, some no. There is a great debate among them even now. Schuyler has kept the tribes near him neutral so far, but there’s blood between the Iroquois and the British, and with these people, blood will tell,” said the Dutchman.

“
What do you mean, blood?”

“
Blood. One of their chiefs is related to the damn English. What’s worse, one of the English took an Iroquois for a bride. You know what that means?”

Jake shook his head.

“
These people are ruled by their women. It’s disgraceful. I am a great admirer of the Iroquois, except in this. They can’t make a move without their squaws. Let me give you a piece of advice that will stand you in good stead for the rest of your days – any woman who rules you will ruin you. Why do you think the Indians are so given to drink?”

Jake gave a noncommittal grunt.

“
Now in my day, a woman knew her place. Ensign Niessen at Wildwyck – there was a man who understood women. Had only to raise his eyebrow and his supper was fetched. And the woman was a good brewer besides. Aye, an excellent wife. Not like today.”

The name Wildwyck, as van Clynne eventually explained, was the true Dutch name for Kingston, changed from the even more appropriate Esopus by the admirable governor Peter Stuyvesant, who, though not without his faults, would tower over mankind like the Alps over Europe if he were alive today. As for Ensign Niessen, the man had lived a good century ago, something Jake knew because the house he stayed at near Kingston just a few days before had been built by Niessen’s son, already a full generation gone.