The Silver Bullet

Chapter Twenty-seven

For about half the distance across the East River, the trip was idyllic. A nearly full moon hung in the sky, shadowed occasionally by clouds but throwing ample light for Jake to steer by. The stars stood ready to offer navigational assistance. The only sound besides the measured rowing was the howl of a wolf somewhere in the distance.

And the gentle trickle of water lapping against a piece of wood.

Unfortunately, the wood in question was part of the interior floorboard of the boat. The leak did not become apparent until they were midstream, but thereafter it progressed with such speed that they were more in the water than in the boat.

Remembering his experience coming in the other direction, van Clynne stood as the water approached his lap, figuring he had only to stand and walk out of this predicament. Unfortunately, rivers are rarely symmetrical.

“ Help!” shouted the squire as he sank beneath the waves.

Jake threw his shoes to shore and dove into the river just as the boat gave up all pretense of floating. The icy grip of the river closed quickly around his chest. The water tasted bitter as well as cold. It splashed into his eyes, stinging and making it hard to see.

Van Clynne was gurgling and splashing somewhere nearby. Jake stroked in the direction of the sounds, but found nothing.

Suddenly, he realized he wasn’t hearing anymore. Wiping his eyes, Jake looked around and around, scanning the surface. He could make out the shadows of the nearby shore — but no van Clynne.

Desperate now, Jake tucked his upper body into the river and dove straight down, extending his arms in a vain hope to snag his drowning companion. Still nothing.

Had had to come up for another breath of air. Once again he scanned the surface, saw not even a hint of his companion, then pressed back below. He swam in a broad, desperate circle, fighting against the current.

Lungs bursting, Jake started to kick for the surface when his foot struck something soft and mushy. He bent down and snagged a piece of thick cloth — van Clynne’s jacket.

Fortunately, van Clynne was still in it.

Jake pulled him to the east shore and dragged him onto land. The Dutchman’s body was cold and he didn’t appear to be breathing. Jake turned him onto his stomach — no small feat in itself — and began pumping rhythmically, hoping to restore him to life.

It was nearly a minute before the Dutchman began coughing. Soon, however, he was exhaling both water and oaths, uttering curses in Dutch, English and a language all his own. Teeth chattering, he finally righted himself, and they proceeded to Roelff’s inn.

Given its strategic location, the inn was not a large one, consisting of two rooms downstairs, several small ones above, and a kitchen in the basement. Jake and van Clynne found the British messenger Herstraw and the officers of his escort in the second room of the first floor, sitting around the fire.

“ Well, look who’s here,” said Jake cuttingly as they entered the great room. “Our friend, the violent patriot.”

Van Clynne’s teeth were chattering too strongly to join in the greeting. Roelff, surprised to see them but utterly discreet, fetched blankets and immediately stoked the fire. Jake took a flagon of rum in hand and pulled up his chair near the Englishmen, refreshing the cups of all but Herstraw, who was drinking cider.

“ It turns out that our destination was similar after all,” Jake said to Herstraw, eliciting only a grunt in response. “Are you going to introduce me to your friends, or will I have to make my own acquaintance?”

Herstraw shrugged. Jake immediately proclaimed how happy he was to see “fine English gentlemen” after having spent the past few days among the “insulting colonials.”

“ We have just been chased into the water by the rebel rabble,” he lied. “They ambushed us near King’s Bridge, and the only way we could get away was to dive into the river. I thought poor Claus was going to drown.”

Van Clynne shivered on cue. Color had not yet returned to his cheeks, and his beard was pasted to his neck like a drowned rat’s tail.

“ And what is your business here?” demanded Herstraw. “What happened to the mother in White Plains?”

“ My mother lives in New York,” said Jake. “I did not think it wise to admit that in the revolutionists’ country. My friend here, Squire van Clynne, does much business behind the lines, and advised me wisely.”

Van Clynne coughed vaguely in agreement.

Herstraw snorted in derision as Jake congratulated him on having played the role of a rebel so convincingly.

“ I had my suspicions, but at the end you fooled me. It has been a troublesome journey,” added Jake. “Really, who do these damned rebels think they are? Give me five minutes in a locked room with Washington, and I tell you, this war will be over.”

“ I shouldn’t underestimate Washington,” suggested the lieutenant to his right. He had a vaguely Scottish accent. “He served with us during the French and Indian War.”

“ You don’t look old enough to have been there,” said Jake, topping off the man’s cup.

“ My father served under Braddock. Washington was a man of great ability, I can tell you. There are certain skills of leadership that cannot be underestimated.”

“ Not one of the rebels can match even our worst private,” said the captain. He was the same man who had posed as a patriot major at Prisco’s. Jake feigned not to recognize him and the captain didn’t bother announcing himself. “Most of the American commanders are foreign has-beens. Imagine, taking Lee in — that’s a sure sign of insanity, if not incompetence.”

Jake readily agreed — the capture of American Major General Charles Lee by the British last year before still ranked as the single most important patriot victory in the war.

“ What do you think, Herstraw?” Jake asked. “I suppose that you are an authority on such matters.”

“ Why is that?”

“ You seemed to be an authority on everything, the last time we spoke.”

Herstraw took that as the veiled insult it was, and scowled.

“ Major Herstraw is just completing an important mission,” said the friendly lieutenant. He held out his cup for a refill. “He’s seen General Burgoyne, and is now on his way to meet General Howe.”

“ Really!” said Jake, instantly adopting the star struck Tory role. “I should like to meet both gentlemen.”

Herstraw said nothing. His eyes cast a withering stare through the room, and someone less bold than Jake might have ended the conversation.

“ What is General Howe like?”

“ I don’t know.”

Herstraw stood; Jake watched as he walked toward the other side of the room, near the outside door. But he wasn’t leaving, merely calling to the innkeeper for a refill.”

“ The general is a very refined man, with very strong opinions. He is an excellent tactician,” said the lieutenant.

“ He often plays the fool,” said the captain. “He is always looking for an excuse to delay an attack. I don’t care who hears me say it — we should have beaten Washington by now, and it’s the commander’s fault. If he didn’t spend his time whoring and drinking, we’d all be better off.”

That bit of blasphemy — common enough among the general’s officer corps — sent the room into a momentary silence.

“ What about this General Bacon?” asked van Clynne, starting now to come to himself. “Is he a fool as well?”

“ What do you know of General Bacon?” demanded Herstraw.

“ One hears things, here and there,” tutted van Clynne.

Herstraw sat back in his seat. “Black Clay and his men be damned. They hold themselves above us all, regardless of their rank.”

“ We do not talk of his work,” the captain told van Clynne. “I’m surprised that you know of him.”

“ He’s famous among Loyalists who want to see a firmer hand applied to the rabble,” explained Jake, who wished van Clynne hadn’t mentioned him at all. “Otherwise we know so little of him. What does he do?”

“ You ask so many questions,” teased the lieutenant, “we might take you for a rebel spy.”

Jake laughed. “That would be quite ironic, since I was taken for a British one near Ticonderoga. They even detained me in a prison cell. I thought my days on earth were over.”

“ Believe me, son, if they had truly thought you were a spy, they would have hanged you straight out,” said the captain. “Many Royalists have been mistreated at their hands. Fortunately, this nonsense will be ended soon.”

Jake tilted his head, all ears for details on how that would come about, but the captain’s attention was drawn to young Miss Roelff, who entered the room with two pitchers to refresh the men’s drinks.

Now here was a Dutch beauty. Her long hair was precisely curled on each side of her rosy face. Her bosom was ample and not too modestly covered by the top of her bodice, while her waist was narrow, the skirt sliding from her hips like a graceful bell made from the petals of a flower. No wonder the British took any excuse to stop here.

“ I wonder, Captain,” said Jake when she had left, “how the rebels can be strong enough to attack us at King’s Bridge.”

“ Don’t be impertinent,” warned Herstraw.

“ No, it is a valid question,” allowed the captain, who was starting to feel expansive, thanks to the run. “Even a weak foe will make use of darkness and temporarily superior numbers to strike momentarily at a weak spot. You will see in the morning that the rebels have been defeated, run off without a single loss of a British soldier.”

“ I hope so,” said Jake, sounding sincere.

The conversation turned to lighter matters, and by some inevitable but untraceable process, came to be dominated by van Clynne.

“ Do you know how many pigs there are in New York? Said the Dutchman, complaining about the city’s hodgepodge development. “They outnumber the people. And why? Because the English have no sense of order. They let things go willy-nilly, unlike the Dutch. When this was New Amsterdam, believe me, not a tulip row was misplaced.”

“ Are you getting tired?” interrupted Jake, seeking to put van Clynne’s mind back on the plan, which called for him to make his way to bed. “You look like you’re getting tired.”

“ Not in the least.”

“ I’m tired,” said the British captain. “It’s time to get to sleep. I’ll just check on the men.”

“ I’ll go with you,” said Herstraw, rising. They were joined by the lieutenant, who walked behind the two men a bit like a younger brother tagging along after school.

“ I think I’ll get a breath of fresh air before I turn in,” said Jake, stretching his arms as he rose — and making some desperate gestures to van Clynne in an effort to get him to arrange things with Roelff.

The Dutchman’s memory was not faulty, just highly selective. He could easily recite the names of ninety percent of the Dutch inhabitants of New York City and the northern counties. He could tell you which of them owed him money, the terms, and when it was expected to be paid back.

He could not do nearly so well, however, with the amounts he owed to the, at least not voluntarily. Likewise when it came to a plan he did not particularly endorse, his knowledge of details tended to fade.

Roelff’s upstairs rooms being relatively small, they were all equipped with only one bed. Now, van Clynne, a seasoned traveler and very much used to sharing his bed, with or without the convenience of a bed board to separate him from the fellow next to him. But he had always managed to avoid crawling between the covers with a British soldier. There was something in his constitution that found it naturally abhorrent; between his displeasure and the recent bath — let us say his mind had lapsed.

Unaware of these moral objections, Jake stretched in front of the house, made as if her were yawning, and then quietly snuck through the bushes, listening as the officers talked about the two Loyalists they had just met.

They had accepted his story to a point; Herstraw believed “that tall colonist was a definite coward, obviously running away from the rebel draft with a story weaker than his stomach.” In his opinion, “the fat one is some sort of roving thief; best keep your valuables well guarded tonight.”

It the king knew he was wasting British blood on such as these, Herstraw added, he would quickly recall his troops.

Having assured themselves that all was in order and the guard strong, the Englishmen returned to the inn and went up to bed. Jake allowed them a five-minute head start, then went inside himself, deciding there might be enough time for an interview with Miss Roelff before the way was clear to proceed to the final step of his mission.

To say he was surprised to find van Clynne in the main room would be to state the obvious. To say that Herstraw had been placed in his own room by the landlord, and that the door was subsequently discovered to be barricaded, would be equally wasteful. To describe what tortures Jake imagined as a suitable punishment for his erstwhile accomplice would undoubtedly break all rules of taste and propriety.

Thus, we skip ahead to Jake’s plan to rouse the British messenger from his bed and his room by setting the building on fire.

“ You can’t do that,” protested van Clynne. “Poor Roelff will be ruined.”

“ You should have thought of that before you failed to carry out your part of the plan.”

“ The swim in the river made me forget the plan, sir; that is a very different thing from being derelict.”

“ I didn’t think a Dutchman was capable of such a character flaw as forgetfulness.”

Jake was not, in fact, going to burn the house down, but merely make it look as if it were on fire. After alerting the innkeeper and getting him to remove his family to a safe distance (Roelff was a most obliging fellow, even condescending to accept the last of Jake’s paper money in payment for his acquiescence), Jake took a bucket of embers upstairs. He’d already gathered some leaves and pans, and now set off a series of improvised smudge pots. The hallway quickly filled with smoke.

“ Fire!” he yelled, banging first on the lieutenant’s and captain’s door. “Fire!”

The officers, who didn’t have to go through the bother of removing a barricade to get out, emerged and ran down the stairs. Herstraw took much longer, coughing from the thick smoke when he finally came out, both boots in his hand.

Jake, lying in wait with his mouth covered by a water-soaked rag, would have preferred that he left them in the room but had realized he wasn’t likely to be that lucky. The patriot had taken up a post near the door just in case of this contingency, and tripped Herstraw immediately, sending him flying across the hallway into van Clynne, who had the duplicate bullet in his hand.

Caught off balance, the Dutchman staggered backward and then fell to the floor, as did the boot and its bullet. There was considerable and commendable confusion as Jake fanned the smoke toward the tumble of men and yelled at them to seek safety. The situation was compounded as the lieutenant returned to the house armed with two buckets of water, which he promptly unloaded on Herstraw and van Clynne.

“ Goddamn it, you food!” growled Herstraw, struggling to his feet. “Give me my boots!”

“ They’re right here,” said van Clynne, groping for the bullet.

To describe what happened next, we first have to suspend this scene and turn the clock back a few short hours, joining a horse and rider on the road to Connecticut. The horse is worn almost to death, but the rider pushes on all the harder, ignoring his own pain and wounds.

The rider is Major Manley, having just realized he has gone off in the wrong direction, he is retracing his steps, inquiring after Jake at every house along the road. Finally he sees it would be more profitable to ask after Herstraw and his British escort. His horse gives way, there are various and sundry other difficulties — with no wish to make this villain seem more heroic than necessary, we join him outside Roelff’s, where he meets the soldiers assigned to accompany Herstraw. They are oblivious to the “fire” just now being lit, grumbling that they have to sleep in tents while their officers push aside soft goose feathers and ogle the proprietor’s daughter.

“ Six of you, come with me,” commanded Manley in such a presumptive tone that the men did not even think to question him. He led them straight to the house, where the alarms were just breaking out. Assuming that his quarry was somehow involved, the assassin rushed inside and up the stairs — and straight into van Clynne, tripping over the prostrate squire as he grabbed for the bullet.

The shouts, the alarms, the smoke — greater confusion had not reigned since a mouse snuck into the queen’s birthday celebration. Guns were fired over van Clynne’s head; Jake shouted and fired back. People flew through the air like witches, and there was all manner of running and disorder. It was a miracle that the Dutchman was able to pluck the two silver balls from the floor where they’d rolled together and toss one into Herstraw’s boot as the messenger grabbed it and ran outside. If luck did not clear van Clynne’s path, then the patron saint of portly Dutchmen surely did.

Jake’s timely fling of a smudge pot into Manley’s face may also have helped, as the British secret agent’s long body provided an effective barrier to the soldiers rushing behind him. They sprawled across the hall as if felled by one of those double-chained balls ship captains use to take down an opponent’s rigging.

“ I’ve found you at last,” gasped Manley.

“ Just in time,” said Jake, falling upon him. “I still owe you something from the lake.”

Everything else happening in that cramped hall melted away as the two men locked their bodies in a desperate duel. Though Manley had spent much energy arriving here, he was far from weak, and managed the first serious blow, flicking Jake off his back. He jumped to his feet and kicked at him, landing a sharp blow to Jake’s ribs.

Jake bounced up, dodged another kick, then aimed a punch at Manley’s chest. The force of the blow was dulled when the Englishman turned at the last moment. The pair exchanged a few glancing shots, then momentarily fell back against the opposing walls to catch their breaths and clear their eyes in the thick haze of smoke.

Never had Jake fought a man so much taller than himself. His limbs were narrow and yet he had remarkable strength, whipping his punches back and forth as if he were cracking a bull’s tail. Jake threw himself forward, fighting off the pummeling to grab Manley around the torso. He shoved his knee upward; Manley moaned as he fell back. But the British agent surprised Jake with a roundhouse right as he surged forward again, and the American fell off to the side.

Not even the coca leaves Manley chewed could match the fury in Jake’s muscles as he called on his body’s reserves to deliver him from this English demon. Liberty herself aimed Jake’s fist as he threw it, cracking Manley’s head back against the wall. Manley brought his arm around and punched Jake’s neck, but as he tried to slide away, Jake struck with the dagger he’d caught in midair on the lake. The red ruby in the hilt end seemed to glow as sharp blade found its way into the villain’s heart.

Three times he plunged into the vast chest, waiting until he felt the death rattle reverberating through the long body as it slipped to the ground. He withdrew the knife and saw his enemy’s last glance, a bewildered, angry look that foretold several centuries of restlessness for his now homeless soul.

Jake had no time to ponder Manley’s future as a ghost. He stepped back through the tumult of bodies sailing around him, then plunged down the steps, escaping outside.