by Jim DeFelice
Jake could only nod.
"I assume you will join us."
"What do I get if I join?"
"Besides preserving your country and winning back your land? I would think those enough for a man of honor." Busch's displeasure was brief but genuine; he had already formed an opinion of Jake, and the expression of material interests conflicted with it. "You will get a bounty of fifty pounds, legal money, besides pay, and the return of your land when the insurrection is ended. Is that good enough for you?"
"I would fight for my king without reward," responded Jake, "though in my destitute state I will be glad for any I can find. Where do I sign up?"
"Consider yourself recruited," answered the captain. "After tonight, I consider you the brother I never had."
Approaching hoof beats echoed through the trees, and Busch took a fresh pistol from a holster on his horse's saddle as he guided the animal to the side of the road. Jake pulled his own animal around and waited opposite him, his own pistol in hand. The Segallas was reloaded and returned to its resting place inside his belt beneath his shirt.
The rider had approached from a long way off, and it took several minutes for him to arrive. Finally his horse's light trot was replaced by a soft whistle — two bars from the fighting song, "British Grenadiers."
Busch answered with a whistle of his own.
"Captain?"
"Approach," Busch ordered. He kicked his horse's side gently and the mount cantered into the roadway, meeting a rider. Jake waited until both men had stopped, then pushed his horse out behind the newcomer.
"Corporal Caleb Evans, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Jake Smith. He has just joined us."
"Smith, eh?" Caleb Evans was a pudgy man, the sort who sat on his horse like a loosely packed bag of onions. There was not enough light to study his face, but he wore an oversized beaver hat not dissimilar to the Quaker van Clynne favored. He greeted the newcomer with unveiled doubts. "Who are you running from that you have adopted that name?"
"My father gave it to me, as his father had handed it to him," responded Jake. "It is thought that our ancestors worked at a forge, though we ourselves are farmers."
"Farmers?"
"Or were formerly," said the patriot spy. "I was run off my land."
"He's with us, Caleb; he's made that clear enough already," said Busch. "He has spent much time in England, and he just saved my life."
"Indeed?"
"We were ambushed by two Skinners."
The corporal's skepticism evaporated into concern for his commander. "Were you harmed?"
"My coat has a hole in it," said Busch. "But Smith saved us from further damage."
"We can't afford to lose you, sir. Perhaps you should return to Stoneman's, and let me go on myself."
"Nonsense. Come, and make sure your pistols are charged and ready. Smith!" Busch had already turned his horse away and was starting on the road east. "Take this road three miles to the west. You'll find a farm that belongs to a man named Stoneman. A small force is gathering there. Present yourself to the sergeant. His name is Lewis. Tell him I have recruited you."
Jake would much have preferred to stay with Busch and his corporal. But before he could protest, the two Tories rode off. The only course open was to travel on to Stoneman's, and see what he could gather of the group's plans.
-Chapter Six-
Wherein, Jake finds that Liberty has not hidden her fire beneath a bushel, but rather seeks to increase its flames.
Jake rode north along the road as cautiously as possible, searching with one eye for any activity that would hint at his destination, and with the other for additional American patrols. His pistol was no longer in its holster — he held it firmly in his hand.
This part of New York was particularly difficult to travel through at night, even when the moon was full; hilly and densely wooded where it was not farmed, it piled shadow upon shadow. The trees, proud of their new coat of leaves, obscured much of the already dim light thrown off by the stars,
Such are the areas where ghosts are born, and Jake might have been forgiven for thinking the spark he noticed through the woods on his right was some specter in search of its lost corporeality. Cautiously he dismounted and walked his horse along the roadside, paralleling the light's movements. It was running downhill toward what seemed to be a peculiarly shaped group of hills. As his eyes studied the landscape, the formation transformed itself into three buildings. A tight path through the roadside scrub—the type of shortcut children take to church — opened in front of him. He walked down it and within a few yards found himself in a haying field.
Jake's boots were heavy and he felt as if with every step he and his horse were making enough noise for a regiment, though in truth they were as silent as the slipping of time through a man's life. The animal he'd taken from Johnson had adopted him as its true master, and mimicked his movements perfectly; he pulled his head down as if to show he could sink to all fours if needed.
As Jake drew closer, he realized the layout of the barnyard, arranged with its back to the field he was crossing, favored his approach. He also saw that there was definitely a gathering in the barn, and noticed a pair of figures walking down a lane from the other direction toward the building.
The light he had seen had obviously come from a torch, but its bearer had not gone into the barn. Nor had he taken up station in the field to guard against intruders, or else Jake would have had to announce himself long before this. Whoever it was had disappeared around a corner of the building, and Jake had to walk some distance in that direction before the light reappeared.
Prudence as well as curiosity demanded an explanation. The edge of the field was marked by a run of short fruit trees and a split-rail fence. Jake tied his horse to one of the posts and crouched down to creep through the grass.
He was close enough to the barn for the hushed sounds inside to form a murmur in his ears, a kind of music to which the figure carrying the light danced.
Not danced, but worked, for the shadow was placing dried rushes, sticks, and branches against the base of the building. This was no ghost, nor a lackadaisical guard, but a woman, thin and hatless, who was strong enough to take a large pail in one hand while holding a torch with the other.
Suddenly realizing what she was doing, Jake jumped from the bushes and flew to her, grabbing her hand just as she was about to light the pitch she had poured from the pail.
"Not a good place to be starting fires," he said, forcing the torch from her grip. "At least not tonight."
"Let me go, you Tory bastard," she yelped before Jake could clamp his hand across her mouth. "I'll send you all to hell.
She was a cyclone of energy; Jake had to lift her off her feet and plunk her onto the ground to knock some of the fight out of her. Seventeen or eighteen at most, the girl wore the simple dress of a servant. The torch illuminated a winsome, spirited face; he felt an instant attraction, all the more so because she was on the right side of the conflict.
"You've got to close the front door before you set a barn on fire," said Jake, who had experience in such matters. "Otherwise everyone gets out. And look at this — you've concentrated your oil in one spot; the blaze will be easy to extinguish."
"You Loyalists are all so smug and sure of yourselves. I hate you."
"If you be quiet a moment," said Jake, deciding not merely to trust her but to enlist her as an ally of sorts, "you will discover that I am not a Tory, but a patriot like yourself."
Whether she would have believed him or not, the young woman was given no chance to reply. Jake clamped his fingers back across her mouth as the indistinct murmurings from inside the barn turned into the definite noises of someone being sent to investigate the disturbance. He stamped out the torch, but there wasn't time to escape — or dismantle the brush next to the barn.
Only one thing to do: Jake pulled the girl forward and grabbed her in his arms, planting a large kiss on her lips as two Tories turned the corner of the building.
"What's going on here?"
"Be with you shortly," he said as one laid his hand on his shoulder.
He was fortunate that they had not brought a candle with them, for otherwise they could not have missed the obvious signs of the aborted arson. The two men laughed and headed back inside for the meeting.
"Well, how was that?" said Jake as he let the girl go.
His answer was a smack across the face.
"I'm practically engaged," said the girl.
"Was my kiss that unpleasant?"
Rarely do words have such a direct impact as these — the girl broke out crying.
Jake once more took her in his arms, this time soothingly. "I am a patriot, and your friend. Tell me why you were going to burn down the barn, and I guarantee to help you."
His voice was so reassuring, and the kiss had been so gentle and warm, that the girl trusted him instantly. Still, it took her a minute to calm enough to talk again. Emotion had broken from her like a river rushing a dam; its pent-up fury was overwhelming once released. Finally her sobs subsided enough for her to tell her story.
-Chapter Seven-
Wherein, Jake's suspicions of the Tories' plot are confirmed, and new dangers encountered.
The girl's name was Rose McGuiness, and contrary to the evidence of her lush lips and well-shaped-if-thin body, she was closer to fifteen then eighteen. She was also a devout patriot, as was her fiancé-to-be. The same age as Rose, the young man was a blacksmith's apprentice who had been put to work forging the great iron chain across the Hudson River north of Peekskill.
"It's all they talk of now, destroying the chain," sobbed the girl, tugging at her reddish-brown curls. "They'll kill my poor Robert, I know they will."
Rose's fiancé would be quite safe, Jake assured her. Most of the craftsmen working on the chain were actually ensconced in Poughkeepsie or New Jersey, their wares transported after they were fashioned. The few who had to work at the forts were well protected, and Jake mentioned breezily that the posts were nearly impenetrable to attack.
She could not see that he had crossed his fingers, and might not have noticed in any case. Her eyes had gathered that dewy glow that is the first warning of lovesickness; her body, so sharp and rebellious not ten minutes before, was now soft and compliant in Jake's arms. Indeed, her fiancé faced a considerably more potent threat from this patriot than from the entire British army.
"Rose, I guarantee that we will not allow them to attack the chain," Jake told her, his voice as sincere as it had ever been in his life. "But you must do nothing now. Trust me when I tell you that I will deal with the Tories sharply and completely. In the meantime, go about your business as if nothing has happened. It is imperative that they have no warning before our forces surprise them."
There was a look in his eye that no poet could describe, unless that poet were inspired by the muse Freedom herself. Determination was not the half of it; his soul had opened up, and his will flooded into the girl's. There was no chance for her to disobey his words.
But let us not get too fancy describing eye contact. Suffice to say that Rose nodded weakly. Jake gave her flushed cheek a kiss to seal the matter, then put on his best Tory face and walked around the side of the barn to attend the meeting.
As gruff and obnoxious as any noncommissioned officer in the regular army, Sergeant Lewis greeted Jake's story of his recruitment and subsequent ambush with a sneering grunt.
"I've got business to attend to. Captain Busch can sort yourself out when he arrives," said the sergeant, turning to the horses.
This would have been fine with Jake, except that the other Tories immediately took their cue from his contempt. The hostility escalated as their leading questions turned to outright accusations.
"I think I've seen you before," said a tallish bald fellow, twisting his words so that it sounded as if he'd spied Jake murdering a child.
"Where would that be?" countered the disguised patriot.
Instead of answering immediately, the man walked to the center of the barn and picked a sword off the table.
"In New York, at a rally for Washington," said the Tory ranger, who pretended to test the blade's sharpness with his finger.
"You're mistaken," said Jake. He folded his arms in feigned disgust. The inquisition was picked up by a fellow nearly as tall as he was, and half again as wide, who came and stood next to him, hands on his hips.
"Your story of being challenged by rebels smells a few days old," said the man. Like most of the others, he wore a dark green coat — the official uniform of a Loyalist ranger. "Where is Captain Busch if it is true?"
"Captain Busch met his corporal. He told me to come on alone," said Jake. "I have enough sense to follow orders."
"He has a rebel stink about him, I'll warrant that," said a third irregular. "Someone with a name of Smith — as likely as finding a pig wearing a dress."
"Your wife speaks ill of you as well," Jake said.
Finally an answer that was well received by all but the subject of the rebuttal.
"I was told that this was a competent group," added Jake boastfully, "but I think the rebels would laugh the moment they saw your ill-fitting coats. Or is laughter your weapon of choice?"
"Best watch your manners," said an older man in the audience. "You're new here. A few of us are veterans of the war with the French and our bravery is well proved."
"In that war, certainly," said Jake, who tempered his mocking tone. "But with respect, we're no longer fighting dance masters; we're after real game."
"And you're here to show us the way, are you?"
"I've come just in time. What have you done till now? Upset a hen house or two?"
"Wasn't it our information that set the raid on Peekskill?" said the older man cheerfully. "And who stole Old Put's own fodder from under his nose three times last month? If his troops are boiling their shoes for meat, it's us he has to thank."
"We could beat the rebels entirely on our own," said another. "We don't need the Dependence or any other help."
"What's the Dependence?"
"A fire-breathing dragon. To the rebels at least."
The group laughed even more heartily than before. No one offered further information, and Jake thought it best not to press. The Dependence must be a British vessel that supported the Tories on their raids.
The talk proceeded in like manner until after 4 a.m., with Jake pretending to doubt the rangers' abilities so he could gather information from their boasts. The men gradually warmed to him, and his manner likewise eased. To hear them tell it, they were a constant threat to the Americans, a half-victory away from routing Putnam's troops from the hills. While their claims were no doubt exaggerated, Jake had good reason to believe they had some level of competence, based on what he had seen of Busch and Evans. They were at least well armed: an assortment of weapons and cartridge boxes were piled along two tables at the center of the barn, well polished and waiting.
As time passed, the men began to grow somewhat anxious about their leader. Their speculation was studded with bits of information about Busch and his background, adding to the portrait Jake already had received. Here was a man, though not as well born or widely known, to rival the infamous Colonel Robinson.
Patriotic readers familiar with Dutchess and Westchester counties in New York will remember Robinson as having been born in the shadow of Sugarloaf Mountain in Philipstown. Denying his free birthright, he raised his own regiment for the British; the once-respected Tory loomed large in the imaginations of men on both sides of the war, and his defection to the lower party did more damage to the American forces than his troops.
Busch, too, had grown up in the area and was well known among the inhabitants of the riverside farms. His father owned considerable acreage, but it was unclear from the gossip exactly how much or where. The captain was single, and in his early twenties as Jake already had surmised; a youthful tragedy had claimed his sister's life and his mother had died soon afterwards. Many
of the local inhabitants did not yet realize where his loyalties lay, and he had not bothered to enlighten them, knowing that ambiguity would aid his activities.
A major assault was planned within the next day or so, but whether or not it involved the chain Jake could not tell and dared not directly ask. The Tories made his job of spying simple with loose tongues and eager curiosity, but Busch apparently was very guarded with information about their pending mission; not even Sergeant Lewis, who was presently in charge, could answer the men's questions about it.
When Busch finally entered the barn, it was nearly dawn. He had lost his hat; his face was worn with fatigue and the corners of his eyes showed the first marks of age, worry tearing at his brow. But there are certain men upon whom Care bestows nobility, and Busch was one of them; he walked into the barn with such a forceful bearing that even Jake found himself jumping to attention.
"Johnson missed the rendezvous," he announced curtly. "Something has happened to him and the escort sent to meet him. Caleb and I were attacked by a second rebel force, this time militia."
Busch scanned the barn until his eyes rested on Jake. He gave him a quizzical look, and for a moment Jake worried that the Tory commander had somehow discerned he was responsible for Johnson's death.
"I am afraid Caleb has been captured," Busch said finally. He gave Jake a nod, and the patriot realized Busch was remonstrating silently with himself for not taking his brave new recruit along on the second leg of his night's mission. "The rebels were hot on our heels and I only just escaped."
There was a general outpouring of sympathy for the corporal; he appeared much better liked than the sergeant. A few men asked if they would rescue him.
Busch silenced the talk with an outstretched hand. "If he is captured, they will take him to the old church. Perhaps Johnson has been taken there as well. We will proceed as originally planned and hope the Dependence holds to its schedule. When we have completed our attack, we will come back and rescue them. Tomorrow, not today."