The Silver Bullet

Chapter Nineteen

If there is a town in upper New York that had done its yeoman’s duty in the War of Independence, it is tiny Fishkill. After the British took Long Island and New York City in 1776, they followed those conquests with a battle for White Plains farther north. This was a bloody and dangerous fight for the patriot Cause, all the more so because it followed such serious losses. But victory turned the tide of the war. General Howe — the same general with whom Jake is presently preoccupied — had to retreat to New York City to consolidate his gains and lick his wounds as the fall began slowly turning to winter.

The Americans likewise had wounds to lick, and a great many of them were healed in Fishkill, a small village some forty or so miles north of where the battle had taken place. The entire hamlet became a hospital, with sundry buildings, tents, and even the roadway used as operating theaters and recovery rooms. The air reeked with the smell of hard-won Freedom and Liberty, the cries of suffering echoing between the hills and across the creek that marked the town.

The same campaign that caused the fall of New York and the blood at White Plains sent the state congress fleeing northward, briefly landing at White Plains and then, on August 29, 1776, to Fishkill. The village gave not one, but two of its churches to the congress, beginning with Trinity on the east side of the Post Road. This was no so great a sacrifice as might be expected, for Trinity here as elsewhere meant “English,” which in turn meant “Tory,” and any sympathizer in the neighborhood by now had either fled or gotten very good at holding his breath.

It did not take long for the politicians to be driven down the street by a second invading horde — a flock of birds entered through the glassless windows and took up residence, punctuating the proceedings with loud cries and other comments on the quality of debate. The congress adjourned westward down the road to the Dutch Reformed Church, which not only had the benefit of glass, but also happened to be across from one of the finest pubs in the state.

The village lasted as state capital for only a short while, the representatives soon hearing of better quarters and even better taverns farther north at Poughkeepsie and then Kingston; nonetheless, its contributions to the Cause will be long remembered.

Alas, upon their arrival in the center of town several hours before dawn, Jake was in no position to celebrate the village’s history. Despite his eagerness to help, van Clynne’s knowledge of Herstraw’s whereabouts had not proven as precise as promised. It was not that the Dutchman couldn’t locate the house where the messenger was staying. On the contrary; he located the house in three different places, and could offer no method of telling which might be the genuine article. Jake’s plan to sneak inside and switch messages while the man slept was thus dealt a temporary setback. And as it would soon be light anyway, he decided his only course was to wait until a better opportunity presented itself.

They could at least be reasonably sure the messenger would take the pass south through the Highlands over the Post Road. The only other way to White Plains was to first travel northeast to Wiccopee, a highly unlikely route for anyone to take. Or so Jake, who with every passing minute became more and more aware of Schuyler’s deadline and the possibility that Albany would be lost, consoled himself.

The Episcopal graveyard had a good vantage of the highway, and Jake suggested they take turns napping there until morning. Van Clynne stated in the most absolute terms that he would sooner step foot in a British counting house. His fear of cemeteries was nearly as great as his phobia of water. He cited superstition after superstition against it, and implied he would stand straight up in the middle of the road all night rather than sleep in a graveyard.

“ Then you take the first watch,” said Jake, tying his horse to a stake and taking his blanket among the stones. “Wake me in an hour, or if he passes.”

For Jake, a cemetery was not a place of horror but one of succor; if it was haunted, undoubtedly the spirits would be friendly towards such a righteous cause as Freedom. So what was to worry?

“ Plenty to worry about,” grumbled van Clynne, sitting against a tree at the very edge of the yard. “There are many people I wouldn’t like to meet dead, I’ll tell you. It’s only the fear of death while they’re alive that keeps them in line. Remove that, and there’s no telling what they might be capable of.”

“ People treat you the way you treat them,” said Jake. “If you didn’t try and swindle everyone during life — “

“ I am not a swindler, sir. I am a businessman.”

“ My family has been in business itself for many years, and I’ve never seen anyone as contentious as you.”

“ What do you sell?” asked van Clynne, interested as much in having someone keep him company in this dreary place as in finding out Jake’s history.

“ The story I told of my family’s business going north was true. My father started with his brother importing drugs to American. That is still our main business, though more in spirit than dollars.”

“ Ha! And you call me a swindler. It’s no wonder you have such a cheery view of the world,” said van Clynne. “You’re born to be an optimist, promising that things will get better if only you drink a cure.”

“ I need no more than a hour’s nap. Wake me then, and you can have the rest of the night.”

“ I can’t sleep in a graveyard.”

“ Fine. Wake me at dawn.”

Van Clynne continued his complaints as Jake drifted off. The Dutchman grumbled about the price he had obtained for his fancy carriage, which he now saw was at least five crowns too low. He grumbled about the weather, despite it being as fine as any spring in the past twenty years. He even grumbled about the fact that the gravestones were not laid in perfect lines. He grumbled so much that he soon fell into a contented snore.

Contented but loud. It woke Jake directly.

The patriot spy was both annoyed and amused to see the Dutchman curled between two headstones, his arm lopped over one as if consoling a lover. Fortunately, Jake’s half-hour snooze had been enough to restore his alertness, and he decided he’d watch the road himself the rest of the night. There’d be time enough to sleep when the job was done.

He had sat at his gravestone for about a quarter hour when he saw a strange sight emerge from the pre-morning darkness. A half-dozen cows were being paraded by a fellow up the road. Most remarkable of all, their progress was entirely silent.

Jake soon realized why — the animal’s feet had been clothed in thick, matted boots. He went and woke van Clynne, wondering what sort of illness had infected the local citizenry or their animals.

“ It’s not sickness at all,” explained the Dutchman in between hushed grievances at being roused from a beautiful dream of his family’s former estate. “The man must be one of the cattle thieves who’s been ravaging the valley. Between the speculators and these villains, cow bone has become more dear than a lion’s whiskers.”

Van Clynne exaggerated, but not as much as usual. He also insisted that, no matter how pressing their other mission, this thief must be apprehended — half of those cows surely belonged to good Dutch families and were intended for the nearby Continental Army barracks.

Even though it was highly unlikely he’d be traveling this early, Jake was loathe to divert his attention from Herstraw. Van Clynne ceased to argue and began shadowing the cattle thief himself. Reluctantly, Jake tagged along, vowing to turn back the moment the silent parade of cows took a detour that made it impossible to see the highway.

Fortunately, his vow was never put to the test. The thief herded the animals into a yard before a barn only a few hundred yards from the churchyard and very close to the road. As van Clynne ran off to alert the local sheriff, Jake snuck down to keep an eye on the thief.

A confederate was waiting with a lantern at the door, and together the two men congratulated themselves on finding so many fine beasts.

“ I’ll get them ready inside,” said the confederate. “You stand guard and wait for Cardington.”

“ We’ve got only an hour if we’re to be out of here when the sun dawns,” said the thief who had led the parade.

“ Just watch outside while I do my business.”

A small stream ran a few yards from the edge of the building. Jake climbed down the embankment and returned with handful of smooth pebbles. It took a few tosses against the side of the barn for the thief to realize the light noises were not coming from within. He picked up a musket and went to investigate.

A quick punch across the face dispatched him to Sleep’s bedchamber. Jake appropriated the fellow’s belt and trussed him with it. Then he returned to the front to wait for the sheriff and van Clynne to return.

And there they would undoubtedly have found him, had he not heard a wagon approaching down the highway at high speed. Jake, assuming it was Herstraw, cursed his luck and ducked back around the side of the barn. He was just about to run back for his horse, still tethered in the churchyard, when the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the barn. A man dressed in a butcher’s smock left the reins and ran to the door.

“ It’s me, Cardington!” yelled the man. “Open the door, Bulfinch. Quickly!”

“ Where’s Griffith?” asked the man inside, opening up.

“ Damned if I know.”

“ Can’t be trusted to do anything. We’ll dock half his share,” said the thief, hurrying the man and wagon inside.

Having gotten himself involved, Jake was reluctant to let the thieves succeed in butchering the animals before van Clynne and the sheriff arrived. He decided to chance a quick sneak into the barn so he could catch the butchers before they quite go red-handed. Providence, after all, must have placed him in the churchyard at the moment the villain passed for a reason.

The door was locked against a frontal assault. The only other opening that presented itself was a loft window on the second floor. Getting to it required several running jumps — noisy running jumps at that, though the sound of the animals inside drowned them out.

In order to make the final leap, Jake had to leave the guard’s musket outside, and thus had only a single pistol in his belt, and his knives, when he climbed into the loft. He had, at least, plenty of cover to work with, as the entire interior light was supplied by a pair of lanterns on the ground floor.

The two butchers were preparing their first victim as Jake crept to the edge of the balcony. But before he could map an attack, there was a loud knock on the door, and the sheriff ordered the men inside to cease and desist.

“ We’ll give him a bit of a surprise,” said Bulfinch, dropping the ax he had taken to slaughter the cow. He picked up a gun from the wagon as the lights were doused.

Feeling his way along the railing, Jake discovered a rope hanging off the ledge. He whisked it up as the two thieves prepared their ambush.

“ Come on in, Sheriff,” called Bulfinch. “The door’s open.”

The sheriff was not the fool the thieves took him for, using a long stick to prod open the door. He ducked as it swung back and two guns fired in rapid succession

Ducking was wise but unnecessary, for the shots had been fired at Jake’s prodding. His encouragement, actually, was accomplished by the heels of his boots — he swung from the rafters into both men the moment the door creaked open and gave him enough light to see by. Archangel Michael did not look so bold when he swing down with the heavenly hosts, nor was Satan as surprised as the two cattle thieves, who collapsed backward in a heap and were easily apprehended by the sheriff, Lars Skinner.

Jake and van Clynne took an early breakfast with Lar’s thankful wife, Willa, who happened to own one of the purloined cows. Her hospitality was all the more welcoming as her house was located just southeast of the highway fork, which meant that no matter where Herstraw had stayed, he would have to pass by.

Her apple pie was also among the best Jake had ever tasted.

“ An old Dutch recipe,” whispered van Clynne as the woman went for more coffee. “I tell you, Dutch housewives are the best.”

“ What are you saying behind my back, Claus van Clynne?” demanded the woman, returning.

“ A compliment, surely,” said van Clynne.

“ As a matter of fact, I have a crow to pick with you,” said Mrs. Skinner.

The squire put up his hand, but it did not stem the attack. Besides being the sheriff, Mr. Skinner and his wife made some pewter items, which van Clynne occasionally endeavored to sell for them. In Dutch — and very sharp Dutch at that — Mrs. Skinner lambasted him for having been slow to pay for his last consignment, which she had subsequently learned had sold in half the time van Clynne had intimated.

An exaggeration, he said.

Hardly, retorted Mrs. Skinner, citing her evidence.

Amused, Jake concentrated on his pie. Apples were heaped nearly eight inches tall between the thick crusts. A trace of maple sugar sweetened each bit. And even though it would have been very expensive, Jake swore there was a hint of cinnamon inside.

As the argument continued, the Dutchman gradually shifted into his cajoling mode, assuring the housewife that there had been no delay, and that if there had been a delay, the pause of a few days once way or another was never a problem when friends were involved, and above all, it was simply a misunderstanding.

Mrs. Skinner folded her arms and suggested that perhaps the sheriff would have another opinion when he returned home. Van Clynne quickly adopted a new gambit.

“ Alas, we have urgent business on the road,” he said. “But before I leave, I would like to purchase a bottle of your elixir.”

“ I never sell that! I give it to friends for free.”

“ Well, I though from the way you were carrying on — “

“ You should be ashamed of yourself, Claus van Clynne. Implying that we are less than friends. My great-grandparents came to America with your great-grandparents.”

Van Clynne put on a contrite look — and winked at Jake as Mrs. Skinner disappeared into the back. She returned presently with a small, milky-white-colored bottle. Van Clynne immediately began singing her praises.

“ You do not often find women such as Willa Skinner!” he declared. “Even the wilden trek to her door.”

“ We haven’t had Indians on this land for ten years,” said the housewife. “And if I saw one, I’d shoot him.”

“ My friend is an apothecary,” van Clynne told her. He spoke in a stage whisper Jake was obviously supposed to overhear. “Let us see if perhaps we can work an arrangement that will make you rich.”

The freckles in her face turned white with the suggestion. “Oh no, no, my cures are never for sale. This is not a cure, only an aid,” she told Jake. “My grandmother passed down the recipe. And educated man will think it superstition.”

“ It is just the thing for indigestion,” said van Clynne, tapping his belly. “And I’m an expert on the subject.” He turned to Jake. “I tell you, sir, you could make a fortune by selling this. A Dutchwoman’s cures, call it.”

The timely passing of their quarry on the road cut off further debate. Jake motioned to van Clynne, who immediately rose from the table, hiking his breeches.

William Herstraw was riding his large black mare quite lazily, though Jake noted that he had one of his flintlock pistols slung in a harness in front of his right leg; undoubtedly its holster was loose enough to swivel upward easily.

Herstraw, too far to see more than shadows inside the house, gave a generic node from his saddle but kept going.

“ Let him get a little head,” said Jake. “And then we can catch up.”

Mrs. Skinner looked first to Jake and then to van Clynne for an explanation.

“ A certain business deal that has to be perfected,” said van Clynne.

“ The man has the look of a Tory,” said the housewife. “He should be shot straightaway.”

“ Let’s go,” said Jake.

“ If I find you are doing business with turncoats,” Mrs. Skinner called out behind them, “I will apply the tar bath myself.”

Jake and van Clynne had gone only a few yards on the road — and around a curve that hid the house from view — when the Dutchman stopped and took the bottle of stomach cure from his pocket.

“ You feel sick?”

“ No, I’m pouring this into the dust.”

“ Why?”

“ It’s rot and poison,” said van Clynne. “I wouldn’t feed it to a dog. The woman is a shrill at business, and her potions are the only way to get on her good side.”

“ Speaking ill of a Dutch housewife?”

“ They are great at everything,” said van Clynne, “except cures. Especially those they claim to have gotten from their grandmothers.” He turned his nose and kicked the horse as he upturned the medicine, which splattered across the ground. “Her ale — now that is another story completely.”