The Silver Bullet

Chapter Twenty-three

“ You cannot deny, sir, that my intervention played a crucial role in the operation.”

“ I was just about to grab the bullet when you set the bomb off. If it weren’t for you, I’d be on my way back to Albany by now.”

“ The explosion was a result of a faulty mechanism for which I clearly cannot be blamed. You were the author of the weapon. I offered my advice, but you declined it. ‘An expedition had but one chief,’ I believe you said.”

“ Why did you light the damned bomb?”

“ I lit it to cover every contingency.”

“ I thought maybe the redcoats set it off in retaliation for your singing.”

“ part of a well-designed plan, sir. As was your appearance. Perfectly on cue.”

“ I see. You planned that.”

“ I knew you would arrive and spirit me away, yes. Now, your decision to make the scene appear as if I had spontaneously combusted — brilliant, sir, truly inspirational. I begin to wonder if you have some Dutch blood in you.”

Jake pulled back on his reins, stopping his horse. “Why is it that you attribute every good quality you come across to the Dutch, and every bad quality to some other nationality?”

“ I simply speak the truth. It is well known that the Dutch are a superior breed of people.”

By now it was well past noon. They had spent the early hours before dawn in the barn of a tradesman whose house was a half mile south of the redcoat camp. Van Clynne had vouched for the man upon rise — it should not take much to guess that he was Dutch — and they approached him for breakfast. After satisfying their hunger and borrowing a pair of shoes for van Clynne, and a shirt for Jake, they returned to their quarry, shadowing their movements south.

The problem wasn’t finding the British troop — apparently unperturbed by the occasional patrols the Americans sent through this no man’s land, the redcoats marched loudly along the road. The difficulty was in coming up with some plan to change the bullets without Herstraw catching on. Jake began to worry that he would have to admit failure and simply assassinate the devil.

Which itself would not be an easy task.

“ The Dutch are the most advanced race in learning,” van Clynne proclaimed as Jake pushed his horse up a hillock to check on the troop’s progress. “The world has not seen the like of our technological achievements since the days of the Chinese. I would have told you of the design for a spring-loaded fuse, had you expressed the slightest interest.

A pair of British soldiers were proceeding as the vanguard. Behind them, the main body with Herstraw and the other officers were just pulling off the road to rest. The foot soldiers were burdened with heavy packs and made slow progress. They were still some twenty-five miles from Manhattan; if they continued at this pace, they would not make the city until nightfall, if by then.

“ Such a bomb can even be constructed with an instantaneous fuse, working on impact,” continued van Clynne, prodding his poor horse in Jake’s footsteps. The animal strained under the added burden of gravity, but it was a patient beast, not complaining despite the boot heals in its side.

“ What are you muttering about?”

“ Noach Vromme, a fine Dutch inventor whom you should meet. He lives in the woods near Skenesboro. Took a wife from the Mohawk — scientists are eccentric, you know. So, there they are, camping again,” he added, spotting the British soldiers for the first time. They have the stamina of chipmunks.”

Jake shook the reins and his horse carried him away from the road. Van Clynne’s mount struggled to catch up as they continued south, aiming to get ahead of the lead element on the highway.

“ So what is our plan?” asked van Clynne when they returned to the road. “Another sleeping bomb for the entire regiment?”

“ That’s hardly a regiment,” said Jake. “But I think not. I have only a few grains left in my snuffbox.”

“ Poison their water, perhaps?”

“ Killing them would defeat our purpose,” said Jake. “Besides, I don’t have any poison.”

“ Surely we can rally a few militiamen in the vicinity and waylay them before they cross King’s Bridge.”

Inspiration works in very mysterious ways. The Greeks had invented the muses as its agent, picturing loosely dressed nymphs whispering in artists’ ears. AS an attempt to explain creativity, it had its flaws — what poet would bother writing with a partially clad woman in the room? More likely, inspiration worked as a thunderbolt thrown by…

A fat Dutchman with a big mouth?

“ Of course,” said Jake, snapping his fingers. “I’ve been going about this in the wrong way. Howe doesn’t know Herstraw and isn’t expecting him. It would be a simple matter for you to go in his place.”

“ Excuse me, sir, but I believe the effects of last night’s sleeping drug have lingered in my brain. Did you say, for me to go in his place?”

“ Who else?”

“ Why, you of course,” protested van Clynne. “You are well versed in these matters, while I am just a lowly assistant and amateur.”

“ You’re Dutch, though. The Dutch have a natural superiority in all matters.”

Jake had never met Howe himself, but there was more than enough officers in his retinue, to say nothing of the city, who knew him under other guises. It would strain credibility for him to try and pass himself off now as a messenger. But van Clynne was perfect.

All you have to do is give him the bullet, doff your hat and be off. You say you work for Burgoyne, and his adjunct will never be the wiser.”

“ What if he gives me another assignment?”

“ Even better. You take it straight to me, and we’ll give it to Schuyler.”

“ This is a most precarious plan, sir. What happens when the real agent shows up?”

“ I’ll arrange for an accident to greet him in New York. That will take a little doing, but it won’t be as hard as sneaking into their camp again. All I need is a marksman or two, or perhaps some thugs on the street.” Jake considered his options. “I shall have to call on one of the Culpers to help me.”

“ Why can’t this Culper fellow carry the message?”

“ What do you know about Culper?”

“ Nothing, sir, nothing.”

“ Forget the name. It means nothing to you.”

“ It would mean even less if we could forget this plan.”

“ Listen, Claus.” Jake’s voice had the iron in it that only a deep love of Liberty could inspire. “You said you wanted to help me so you could get your property back. You claim to hate the British and believe in Freedom.”

“ All true. Very true.”

Jake brought his horse around and was now facing van Clynne. “Do this for your land, Claus.”

“ I want to make sure I survive to enjoy it. It’s one thing to confuse these rogues, but the British commander-in-chief…”

Jake, well aware of Howe’s reputation as somewhat less than astute except when battle was directly before him, began to laugh. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll have him debating the merits of beer over Madeira within a minute or two.”

“ There is no debate over which one is better,” said the Dutchman with great solemnity.

Jake knew it would be better if van Clynne met the general before Herstraw met his accident. Partly this was a matter of logistics; the troop had now passed into very secure British territory north of King’s Bridge, where a surprise attack would be well-guarded against. Fort Independence — the name had not prevented it from falling into British hands — lay to the west, and the redcoats and Loyalists here were constantly on guard against attack, having successfully fended off an American raid several months before. An ambush would be infinitely easier on Manhattan island, where the troops would not be as alert, and where some or all of the patrol might fall away.

Delaying his assault would also guarantee that, if Herstraw somehow escaped, in the worst case Howe would be presented with two messages completely at odds with one another. Past experience showed that the inclination in such cases was always to give the first more weight.

But how to guarantee that Herstraw was delayed sufficiently to finish second in this race?”

“ Too back we can’t get them to detour to my friend Roelff’s,” suggested van Clynne. “I’m sure he could arrange to detain them — perhaps a little of your powder in their ale would do the trick.”

“ Where is it?”

“ North of Morrisania on the Harlem Creek,” said the Dutchman, using the Dutch name for the narrow portion of the upper East or Salt River. “There’s a small patch of calm water untouched by the riptides, and there Roelff has his inn and a small ferry besides. He does a very nice business. And,” van Clynne winked at him, “he has a daughter you would like.”

Having seen firsthand what van Clynne considered beautiful, Jake’s mind could not have stood the strain of contemplating what the young girl might be like. Fortunately, it was spared that labor by the more pressing problems.

“ This Roelff would help us?”

“ Of course, he’s Dutch. And with a few crowns on the side, one’s patriotism is easily enforced. Besides, the British look for excuses to stay there — the daughter is exceedingly fair. The soldiers make camp in the yard outside while the officers stay inside. It is their usual arrangement.”

“ How do we get them there?”

“ I cannot be expected to shoulder this entire operation myself. You must supply some initiative yourself. We are, after all, equal partners.”

“ Equal partners?”

“ Just so, sir, just so.”

The reader can conclude on his or her own how the conversation proceeded, quite possibly suggesting the various arguments that were raised and points made. In actual fact, Squire Van Clynne carried these out single-handedly, or single-tongued, if there is such an expression. Jake’s attention was turned to other things, namely the two British soldiers who appeared practically from nowhere and demanded to see their rights of passage.

These papers were calmly produced. The soldiers reviewed them, though it was obvious to Jake that in fact neither man knew quite how to read. The pair were poor conscripts taken from some north country tavern in England during a drunken stew. They’d be eminent candidates for desertion — but now was not the time to convert them.

“ Do you want me to help you with that?” Jake offered congenially, slipping from his horse and going to the soldiers to turn the paper in its proper direction.

“ How do we know you wouldn’t read the wrong thing?” one of the men said gruffly. He poked his bayoneted musket in Jake’s direction, but the American put his hand gently on the barrel and turned it away.

“ Because I am a loyal subject of King George, just as you are,” said Jake, reaching into his jacket. “Care for a pinch of snuff?”

“ Never touch the stuff,” said the soldier.

“ Well, I will, sir, and thank you for it,” said the other man, cheerfully handing back the papers.

Jake held out the silver snuffbox.

“ Very nice,” said the man, taking it and opening it carefully.

“ You must be a gentleman or something, eh?” said the other soldier.

“ Or something. What’s this? Your friend seems sleepy.”

Jake grabbed the box from the man’s hand just as he collapsed to the ground.

“ Jesus. Tom! Tom, get up, damn it, before the corporal comes. What’d you do to him, mister?”

“ Me?” Jake flailed his hands, warding off blame. “What could I have done? I was talking to you.”

“ And he — Jesus, I’m — “

Falling asleep, too, as Jake’s innocent protests had shaken the powder into the man’s face.

As a matter of fact, Jake felt as if he could use a good strong cup of coffee right about now. But first things first.

“ I was about to suggest your magic dust might be appropriate,” said van Clynne.

“ Grab their guns, then help me get their clothes off.”

“ What for?”

“ If you were as inventive as you claim, you’d already know.”

“ You’re not going to suggest that I wear a redcoat uniform!” protested van Clynne. “My father will turn over in his grave!”

If they had had time to sew these two uniforms together, Jake surely would have suggested that. In the actual event, however, it was he who donned the private’s coat. Van Clynne fulfilled the other part of his plan, which was to hide in the words with the weapons and create a commotion at Jake’s signal. For Jake had concocted a stratagem that would have made the great Elizabethan playwrights proud — the Americans were once more attacking Fort Independence and the nearby bridges.

Illusion is mostly a matter of timing. Two men can appear to be two hundred or even two thousand, if the circumstances are right. Jake dashed down the road in his stolen uniform, happening upon the two British privates who formed their troop’s advance party. He shouted and screamed, his horse wheeling, dust flying.

“ Take cover!” he screamed. “The damned patriots are attacking King’s Bridge disguised as Indians! Dyckman’s is already cut off!”

The two soldiers shouldered their weapons, but were not sufficiently impressed by Jake’s warning. Their attitude began to change, however, when he wheeled and fired off his pistol — only to be answered by two shots in the woods.

The soldiers dropped to their knees and fired back down the road. Jake slipped quickly from his horse, holding it by its tether.

“ Where are your troops, where are your troops?” he demanded as the soldiers tried to reload in the dust.

“ Down the road,” said one of the men, ducking as the rebels in the woods fired again.

“ How many?”

“ Twenty. We are escorting a messenger to New York.”

“ Twenty, is that all? There are two thousand damned rebels down from Connecticut, half of them with Pennsylvania rifles!”

At this the British soldiers nearly lost their weapons as they dropped to the dirt. Every since the British column marching back from Lexington had been picked off by snipers from the woods, any patriot with a rifle and a halfway decent hunting coat was assumed to be both a marksman and superhuman, able to shoot around trees and at vast distances.

Jake found it necessary to join them as a new volley sounded, a bullet whizzing uncomfortably close to his head.

“ Take him by another route!” Jake warned the men as he struggled to reload his pistol. “Double back to the intersection a half mile east and then head south to a Dutch path in the hills. There is a ferry owned by a man named Roelff. He is a Royalist and dependable. All the officers know him. The path on the other side leads to the Bouwerie Road.

Jake steadied his horse as another bullet whizzed past. Van Clynne’s part in the play was proving a little too realistic for comfort.

“ Go quickly. I’ll try and hold them off.” He took aim and fired at the imagined rebel horde. His fellow redcoats were marveling at his bravery, undoubtedly impressed that a man who was dressed as a foot soldier spoke like an officers — and was mounted, to boot.

Their desire to linger in the vicinity, much less to ask questions regarding Jake’s own circumstances, were quickly dispatched by a bomb that exploded a few yards away with a great whoosh. Careful examination of the weapon and its trajectory would have shown that it was formerly a powder horn, that it had been very crudely constructed in a manner producing much spark but little damage, and that its trajectory originated not from the rebel position but from Jake’s own hand. However, in the smoke and dust, careful examination was not a viable option. The soldiers ran for their lives back toward their troop, shouting the alarm.