The Silver Bullet

Chapter Twenty-five

The mention of the continent’s head of the Secret Department reminds us that several days and many pages have passed since the villain Christopher Manley was left for dead in Lake George. The reader will recall that the British major was last seen with a rather ugly red spot on his belly, the product of a bullet fired by none other than Betsy Schuyler, who proved as brave as she is beautiful, and whose fine qualities will undoubtedly be sun throughout these states ere the war is over.

We lost track of the major in the tumult of the waves as the small boat went down. It would have been natural to assume that the major drowned; indeed, it was undoubtedly a firm hope.

But consider: Had Jake suffered a similar wound on a mission, would we have been as likely to conclude that he easily gave up the ghost? Would not our hero find a way to overcome his injuries and pursue his man? Would the mere puncturing of his stomach — as painful and inconvenient as such a wound necessarily is — end his career?

Manley’s extended physique played a critical role in his survival. Had he been of ordinary height, the bullet that entered the right quarter of his back would have doubtless pierced his kidney, proving quite fatal. Alternatively, had his internal organs been as elongated as his body, they would have severed his lung with the same effect. But Manley’s extra-long body was filled with organs of only average size, spaced out by extra helpings of mucus and membrane. Thus the bullet merely nicked through a portion of his small intestine, releasing a great deal of blood but not his soul.

Which is not to say he wasn’t in severe pain as he struggled to find the surface of the lake. Here again, his long arms and legs helped him, providing a natural buoyancy that brought him to the surface. He caught site of Jake swimming for the canoe and waited until the American reached it; then he took a huge gulp of air and submerged, avoiding Jake’s scan of the waters. By the time he resurfaced, the Americans were paddling for the shore.

Manley’s struggle to reach the rocks opposite was monumental; were the author of different sympathies, it might be described in heroic detail as an inspiration for all who would follow in the swine’s boot steps. Suffice to say that Manley made shore and was rescued by his compatriots, taken to the home of a Loyalist, and nursed back to health.

Nor nursed so much as bandaged, for the British agent was determined more than ever to accomplish his mission. Manley had served the Secret Department in France and Spain, and never once had failed; he wasn’t about to let some colonial outwit him. Nor was his arrogance tempered by any new appreciation of the rebel’s abilities; he considered Jake’s escape a mere product of luck, aided by the dastardly expedient of a pistol kept up a woman’s skirt.

The possibilities of such a double entendre amused him as he traveled south by horseback, attempting to pick up Jake’s trail. He rode as quickly as he could despite his wounds; a flask of rum that he sipped from every hour was his only concession to the nagging pain.

In fact, Manley increased his discomfort by chewing constantly on leaves of a certain South American tree whose properties allowed him to go without sleep. The plant — natives used the word “coca” to describe it — grows in the Portuguese jungles of Brazil. It has nearly magical properties to provide energy and ward off sleep; members of the Secret Department had discovered them nearly a hundred years before while infiltrating the Portuguese court, and often made use of them in special circumstances. But there was a heavy price to pay for the increased alertness the leaves provided — the juices were extremely caustic, churning even a healthy stomach. Manley’s injured organs were in such a state that every few hours he found it necessary to dismount and vomit. The blood disgorged in the fluids would have been enough to make a lesser man faint.

The British agent succeeded in tracking Jake to Rhinebeck, where Traphagen remembered seeing him in the company of a Dutchman a day or so before. His boy had overhead them talking about Fishkill; Manley went there and after several hours finally found the housewife who’d given them their breakfast. It was fortunate that the British major was wounded and in a hurry, for under the ordinary circumstances he would have thought nothing of killing his informants as payment for their cooperation. Instead, he posed cleverly as an agent for General Schuyler, winning their confidence and even assistance. Twice he was able to trade horses, exchanging a beaten beast for a fresh mount.

It would be happy to report that Justice Prisco, our good innkeeper so recently met, saw through this ruse and managed to send Manley in the wrong direction. Alas, Major Manley had not achieved his position in the Secret Department by influence alone, and was able to weave such a convincing tale that the judge was easily taken in. Manley accounted for his wounds by saying he’d been shot by Tory bandits; he told the keeper and his wife that he must find his old friend Jake to recall him for an important mission to Canada. Prisco told him Jake was on the trail of a notorious British spy, who’d apparently been rescued by the British Army earlier that evening.

Sweet Jane alone was suspicious — the visitor made no mention of her new sweetheart, Claus van Clynne, a man whom she understood would be vital to any secret operation in the state, if not the country. Asked the direction Jake and van Clynne had taken, she wove a confusing verbal map that sent him toward Connecticut until he until he realized that he’d been hoodwinked. Cursing and heaving, he struggled to find his way back in the dark.