The Silver Bullet (9 page)

Outside, the festivities were just getting under way as the old Liberty boys marched up the road with much shouting and threats to the king’s well-being. They had mounted their vat of tar on a small cart and pulled and pushed it along with such abandon that it slipped quite easily into the moat Smith and the British villain Peters had constructed.

“
That’s what you get, Rebels,” said Peters, emerging from a nearby bush and standing over the ditch.

“
We’ll run you out,” promised one of the few men who had not fallen into the water-filled hole. “And you, Smith – we’d hoped for better from you.”

Smith’s response was cut short by a tremendous explosion from inside the house.

“
My wife and children!” yelled the Tory, running for the building.

He was no doubt surprised to find his neighbors running right behind him, echoing his concerns. Jake certainly was, as watching from the shadows he saw the men help Smith put out the flames and call for his family in the shattered ruins. Suddenly politics had ceased to matter, and the Liberty boys even held off citing this catastrophe as an example of what came from associating with the British until Smith was tearfully reunited with his family.

The reader knows that most encounters between would-be Loyalist and ardent patriots have not ended with optimistic promises to help rebuild the former’s damaged house as this one did, but Jake could not help but smile as he slipped toward the road, realizing that the British recruiter – now helping douse the flames – would find no further succor here, and would indeed end the night by being placed under arrest.

Jake could also not help but smile at the cries of the one man left in the muddy pit, Claus van Clynne.

“
Help!” called van Clynne, who could not get a good enough footing in the slippery mud to pull himself out of the waist-high water. “I can’t swim. This water is deeper than the Atlantic. A rope or a hand before I drown would be greatly appreciated.”

Not wanting to blow his cover unless absolutely necessary, Jake crept silently to the edge of the moat and made sure the Dutchman was in no immediate danger. He then trotted back toward Blom’s house, so pleased by the events of the night that he found himself wishing Johanna were just a few years older.

Wherein, van Clynne’s prowess as a lover is extolled, and the travelers reach British territory.

“
S
o?”

Van Clynne shot Jake a puzzled glance from the back of his horse. “So what?”

“
How’d it go?”

“
How’d what go?”

“
You left your bed in the middle of the night. I assume you had a midnight rendezvous in town.”

“
I told you, I spent the entire night sleeping outside the door to our room. Why did you bar it against me?”

“
Oh, here now, Claus.” Jake gave him a wink. “I’ve heard stories about you Dutchmen. It’s not for nothing you wear your breeches loose, is it?”

“
I wear my breeches in very proper fashion,” protested van Clynne, stroking his beard for emphasis.

“
When you wear them. What, do you expect me to believe you spent the night swimming in the ocean?”

“
Well,” said van Clynne, stifling a sniffle, “I did have things to attend to.”

“
You’re a good man of business, squire,” chuckled Jake.

As difficult as it is to imagine van Clynne’s already rotund body puffing, it did seem to inflate under the stimulus of Jake’s flattery. Of course, that did not stop him from continuing his complaint that he had not had much sleep.

The detour around Ticonderoga had taken them too far to the west, and they were now traveling back toward Lake Champlain. Jake did not have a firm idea of where they were, surmising only that Crown Point – in British control – lay well to the southeast. Van Clynne evidently intended on bypassing the British frontier garrisons, much as he had tiptoed around the American stronghold at the foot of the lake. Not a horribly bad idea, all things considered.

As a precaution before leaving the Blom house this morning, Jake had burnt papers from Schuyler allowing him to travel unmolested through patriot lines; if stopped by a British patrol, they would raise many embarrassing questions. His only documents now were a list of Indian goods he had supposedly been sent by his father in Philadelphia to search for, and a letter from Governor Guy Carleton’s secretary vouching for his character. Both, of course, were forgeries, though Jake had some confidence no British soldiers would realize he’d never quite mastered his father’s habit of looping his
o
’s at the top.

Having set out when it was still dark, they breakfasted shortly after the sun rose, stopping on a hill that looked out toward the lake, still a good two miles distant. They split a venison pasty prepared by Johanna. It was not an equitable split – Jake felt he was doing well to get a quarter of it.

As his experience in the ditch last night hinted, van Clynne’s reluctance to venture on the water was largely based on his fear of drowning. Nevertheless, it now appeared a wise decision, as Jake saw when he remounted his horse and looked toward Lake Champlain. A trio of gunboats were exchanging intermittent fire with two smaller craft. From the distance the battle appeared more in play than earnest. The geysers from the errant cannon fire looked like pimples suddenly erupting on the water’s clear face.

No wonder Flanagan had asked him to complete the mission within a week, a time span that was so short as to be nearly ludicrous. The British was already testing the American defenses; the invasion might come at any moment. This might even be its vanguard.

The boats shifted about with neither side gaining an advantage. Jake and van Clynne watched silently from the distance as the drama played out. They were so absorbed in the battle that they did not hear the approaching riders until they were almost upon them. When they did, the Dutchman merely shrugged, continuing to watch the battle. No doubt this was part of a strategy of nonchalance; Jake told himself once more that he could not have chosen a better guide.

And so the moment of truth stole up quietly, trotting forward in the form of a British lieutenant and his sergeant, who shouted roughly at them but then likewise turned their attentions to the battle in the distance.

“
Got the damned rebels on the run,” said the sergeant when the two small fleets parted.

Jake grunted in assent. Van Clynne said nothing.

“
You will honor me, gentlemen, with your papers,” said the lieutenant.

“
And what if I have no papers to treat you with?” said Van Clynne hostilely. “What will you do then?”

“
We’ll take you back as prisoners and spies,” answered the officer, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

A moment before, Jake could not have had a higher opinion of van Clynne, whose services as a guide had been invaluable. Now his estimation shifted one hundred and eighty degrees – the man was inviting not only suspicion, but death. Nonetheless, Jake remained outwardly calm. He could have his Styan in hand and fired before the officer had finished kicking his horse’s flanks for a charge. Then he’d reach down and test his new Hawkins on the sergeant.

“
In the days of Governor Stuyvesant, no traveler was ever ill-treated,” said van Clynne, reaching into his vest for the papers. “Even an Indian would get proper respect. A man’s word was his guarantee. Now, without a piece of foolscap signed by every monkey in the province, one can’t even journey three leagues. Every sneeze is regulated.”

The officer put his sword back in its sheath and nodded to the sergeant, who dismounted, snatched the wad of papers from van Clynne and handed them over. The lieutenant unfolded the several pages paying careful consideration to the signatures if not the rest of the words, before handing them back.

“
Who’s he?” asked the officer.

“
My son,” said van Clynne.

At that, everyone raised an eyebrow, including Jake.

“
He doesn’t look Dutch,” said the sergeant. “He’s dressed like a macaroni.” Macaroni was a derogatory term for a dandy, and though Jake would not have been taken for such in the city, out here the fine cut of his clothes tended to stand out.

“
The ways of the young,” said van Clynne, shaking his head. “I wish I could talk some sense into his head. Perhaps you can.”

“
Be happy to try,” said the sergeant, reaching towards Jake’s horse.

Jake pulled the reins around and answered him with a string of oaths in ill-formed pidgin Dutch. Though ruinous to van Clynne’s ears, they were enough to convince the soldiers. The Dutchman grabbed his papers back and prodded his horse forward, setting off down the road. Jake followed quickly.

“
Why did you give them a hard time?” he asked when they were out of earshot.

“
They were British.” To van Clynne it seemed a natural explanation. “I told you the hat would draw attention, didn’t I?”

“
Do you really think they’d believe I was your son?”

“
What do I care?” said van Clynne. “You’re a deserter, and they won’t shoot you for that.”

“
What do you mean, I’m a deserter?”

“
You are. You’re a Loyalist who’s had enough of the fight. I’d wager that your neighbors drove you from your home and sent you packing. Rattlesnake cure, indeed.”

“
I’m an apothecary,” said Jake, adding a slightly mournful note to his voice, as if all van Clynne said were true.

“
Yes, well, I’ll take my twenty crowns now, if you please.”

“
We agreed on Montreal. I have a friend there who’ll give me the money.”

“
Listen up, fellow. You have more than twenty crowns in your purse, I dare say. I don’t care to know your business, but my guess is that you want to get north as quickly as possible, to see your friend or family, whichever it may be. Now I have business to transact in several houses near here and I will be all day and possibly the next two or three about it. You may tag along if you wish, but we’ve gotten through the America lines, which was where the danger lay for you. Wasn’t it? Well?”

Jake nodded solemnly. Van Clynne was quite pleased with himself.

“
Cut through this field and take the road there,” he said, pointing to his right. “You’ll come along the highway, and you can ride straight to Montreal. It’s eighty miles at the most, no more.”

“
How do I know you’re not sending me into a trap?” said Jake, caught up in his role as a Tory coward.

“
If I were going to turn you in, I would have done so near Ticonderoga. Besides, there’s no profit in it – unless, of course, you don’t pay me now.”

Jake reached inside his clothes to the money belt around his waist. He counted out four gold guineas and then two crowns. Together the coins could have kept a Boston family in clothes and bread for more than a month.

Van Clynne examined the coins to see if they had been shaved, a common practice. Each was intact and practically new, an oddity he noted but did not remark on. Before finding their way to Jake’s money belt they had been in the charge of a British paymaster, but the tale of that detour lies outside our immediate scope.

“
Thank you, good sir,” said the Dutchman, doffing his hat as he dropped the coins into a purse he kept on a long string around his neck. “And now, I bid you farewell.”

“
Good luck in your business,” said Jake. “Until we meet again.”

“
I’d get rid of the hat if I were you,” were van Clynne’s parting words.

The city of Montreal lies at the foot of Mount Royal on a strategic island in the St. Lawrence. The great French explorer Jacques Cartier discovered it and claimed it for the greater glory and profit of the French kingdom in 1535, though it was not until 1642 that white men made a lasting settlement. The profit in question was largely spiritual, with the Association of Montreal formed by Sieur Paul de Chomedey de Maisonneuve aiming squarely at converting the heathen and adding their population to heaven.

The French, and their Jesuit priests especially, felt a special calling to promulgate the Word in the wilderness, baptizing freely and spreading the spirit of Christianity by whatever means necessary. Smallpox was not meant to be one of those means, but it was nonetheless distributed more quickly and efficiently than the scriptures.

Jeffrey Amherst took Montreal for the British in 1760. Robert Montgomery took it for the Americans in 1775. By the fall of 1776, Benedict Arnold and his tattered band of disease-ravaged soldiers had given it back, abandoning it in disarray.

By that time Jake was already hard at work for General Greene in New York. After being wounded at Quebec in late December 1775, he’d been evacuated to a makeshift hospital. There he’d refused to let the surgeon take off his leg, preferring death to life as a cripple. His stubbornness had cost him great suffering, but Jake had gambled that he could survive the wound without infection or complication, and won. In truth, the decision had been made at least partly from the wild despair of having seen his friend Captain Thomas and then General Montgomery die but a few yards from him on the battlefield. For a dark moment Jake Stewart Gibbs had not truly cared whether he lived or died.