The silver bullet ps-1

by Jim DeFelice

  Meanwhile, van Clynne and Blom had changed not only their topic of conversation but their style of talking, low whispers replacing loud boasts.

  “ You’ve stopped by just in time, Claus,” said Blom. “We have a little adventure planned this evening, around midnight.”

  “ A party?”

  “ You might say, though the guest of honor won’t take much pleasure in it. The Smiths have been hosting a British agent, who’s trying to recruit the countryside to desert to the king.”

  “ Found no takers, I hope.”

  “ None. But we can’t have that sort of thing going on in the neighborhood. We’re going to tar and feather the devil tonight, and send him on his way. Myself and a few of the local Liberty boys.” Blom glanced toward Jake, who pretended to be engrossed in watching Johanna leave the room. “Do you think your friend would come along?”

  Van Clynne made a face. “I think not.”

  Jake slunk back in his spindled chair and waited for the Dutchman to give him away. He had resigned himself to admitting he was an American agent — and positioned his pocket pistol in case they weren’t ready to believe him — when he heard van Clynne say that Jake was a Quaker and thus could not participate in any warfare.

  “ Best to leave him totally in the dark,” added the Dutchman.

  “ Have you tested his loyalties?”

  “ Oh, I vouch for him,” van Clynne bristled. “But let us not take unnecessary chances. The more people who know of an operation, the more chance for something to go wrong. Some people just can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  Even disguised as a Tory deserter, Jake Gibbs couldn’t pass up an opportunity to wreak a little havoc on the British cause, especially if all he was sacrificing were a few hours of sleep and the possibility of fending off the innkeeper’s daughter. Besides, he wanted to make sure van Clynne survived to help him north in the morning.

  Jake wasn’t sure what to make of the Dutchman’s lie about his being Quaker. Perhaps he felt obligated by their business deal, or else his demonstration of prowess with the pocket pistol was still fresh in the squire’s mind. In any event, van Clynne didn’t mention his planned sojourn when they were packed off to the upstairs room to sleep.

  Unlike many backwoods inns, there were separate beds. Jake didn’t object when van Clynne took the one nearest the door, nor did he let on that he was still awake a half hour later when Blom knocked on the door and whispered that it was time to leave. The Dutchman had fallen asleep — his snores were akin to the doleful soundings of a beached whale — and Jake was treated to a few minutes amusement as Blom tried to wake him. Finally, the innkeeper pulled the Dutchman’s beard, and he bolted upright with a start and a whispered curse.

  Jake let the pair get a head start, then snuck out of the darkened house and trailed them up the road. Van Clynne’s grumpy voice carried farther than the light of his torch. He spent much of the short walk complaining about the sudden chill of the night — in the old days, spring came on with reckless abandon, and there was never a need for as much as a jacket once the snow had gone.

  Jake saw why Blom had been interested in recruiting him when the pair met four or five men gathered in front of the hamlet’s small church. None of these Liberty boys was younger than sixty. The tiny community had sent all of its young men and a few of the older ones as well to the nearby fort: these old gentlemen were all that remained of the local population.

  They were a feisty lot nonetheless, and in the manner of Liberty men across the continent, had prepared a proper tar bath and an effigy to impress the British recruiter with. As they passed a bottle to rally their youth for the coming action, Jake slipped back in the words, as much to stifle a laugh as anything else — these ancients sounded like a squad of nineteen-year-old privates, ready to take on the world. But there was no need to tell one versed in apothecary sciences that age was largely a matter of the mind.

  Just as he settled into the darkness, Jake heard someone else moving through the nearby woods. He stood deer-still and watched a small figure emerge from behind the trees, study the gathering, and then retreat. The patriot spy followed along as quickly as he dared, as quietly as possible. The shadow — so short and thin he must be a boy of eight or nine — climbed over a rail fence into a cleared yard and began running; Jake had to let him get a very long lead before he decided it would be safe to pursue.

  It was easy enough to see where he went. Well before Jake arrived at the back of the house, he realized the destination must be the Smith family homestead, and that the boy must be allied with the Tories.

  “ They’re on their way, Father,” said the lad to the two taller figures in the road in front of the house. “They’re in front of the church.”

  “ Good, Jamie. Go inside with Mother and make sure the cannon is ready. Mr. Peters and I will be here for awhile longer.’

  Peters — whose accent gave him away immediately as a British officer fresh from south Wales — was working on a vast ditch in the road in front of the house, filling it with water from a nearby well. “We’re ready,” he told Smith. “We’ve just got to cover the trench with the rushes and dirt. No one will see it in the dark.”

  “ I don’t want to hurt anyone,” said Smith.

  “ They’re coming to kill you, man,” declared the British recruiter indignantly. “This is merely a small trick you’re playing on them. No need to feel guilty.”

  “ The swivel cannon, though.”

  “ We’ll fire it only if they attack the home. You’ve got to protect your family.”

  “ What if it goes off by accident?”

  “ Buck up, Smith. These people are rebels.”

  Jake let the reluctant Tory continue his debate with the devil as he snuck to the back of the house, determined that there would be no such accident. In truth, most Loyalists did not feel the qualms Smith expressed, and Jake saw some hope for him — though not if the evening proceeded as planned.

  A small lean-to was located at the back of the house, serving as the family as a summer kitchen. The voices inside the building indicated that mother and son — and at least two other children — were working on the swivel gun in the front room. Jake could easily sneak in while their attentions were turned toward the cannon and the street.

  He had brought two of his pistols with him, and he took one now from his belt. Already loaded, he wanted to use it to scare the family into submission — but only scare them, for he was loath to hurt women and children, no matter how misguided their loyalties. He therefore took the unusual expedient of removing the flint from the firing mechanism — the pistol was cocked, and except to a careful eye, would seem ready to fire. Jake could even pull the trigger, though nothing would happen. The other gun remained ready at his waist.

  Hearing noises in the distance up the road, Jake wedged his foot inside the door and eased it open, sneaking into the kitchen — and directly in front of the business end of a large, ancient, but very definitely loaded and simmering matchlock.

  Chapter Six

  Wherein, Jake finds that not all Whigs and Tories are ready enemies.

  “ Drop your weapon, sir, or you will find yourself singing in Gabriel’s choir,” said the gun’s master, the same lad who had earlier acted as advance scout.

  Jake couldn’t help but admire the young man’s spirit. He also couldn’t help but hold his arms out at a fair length, then slowly bend his knees for the ground.

  “ I’ll just set my pistol down here,” he said, placing it on the long, woven carpet before him.

  “ Now take a step away. Smartly if you please,” said the lad.

  “ As you wish,” said Jake, who stepped with his right foot off the rug — and with his left foot pulled the cloth suddenly forward, judging that the boy was too light and the floor too polished to offer much resistance. He judged correctly — and caught the lad and his gun as they flew upward.

  “ Let go of me or I’ll tell Mother!”

  “ I’ll tell her mysel
f,” said Jake, holding the squirming lad beneath his arm like a log as he fetched and extinguished the matchlock. “I admire your bravery, but you’re expressing it on the wrong side of the fight.”

  “ My father will have you hung.”

  “ Your father will do well not to be hung himself,” said Jake, carrying the boy forward into the front room where his mother was waiting.

  “ Put my son down, sir, or I’ll shoot you through with this swivel cannon.”

  The woman had turned the gun, mounted on a thick steel tripod in the middle of the front hall, to face him. She was holding a fuse stick in her hand. Jake could see from the flush in her throat that her heart was beating close to its limit.

  “ Come now,” said Jake, taking another step inside. “I have no desire to hurt you, and I know that you don’t want to hurt your son.”

  “ I warn you, sir, don’t test me.”

  The swivel was a very light but also exceedingly deadly gun. A bit more than four feet long, it weighed near two hundred pounds, but was situated on a mount that made it relatively easy to maneuver, even for a woman. It could not be turned quickly, however, and Jake had only to take two quick side steps to get out of its line of fire. With his third, he tossed the boy toward his mother. Instinctually, she put up her arms to catch the lad, and in so doing, dropped the wooden switch she meant to use to fire the gun. Jake clamped down on it with his foot, dropped the matchlock and pulled out his pistol.

  “ Please, madam, step away. This gun is loaded and I will feel very sad if I have to shoot you.”

  “ Go ahead, rebel,” said the woman. “I am ready.”

  It was terrible to see such bravery wasted in a Tory, and Jake shook his head. “I would not make your poor children orphans,” he said. “Into the kitchen with you now.”

  Two little girls emerged from behind a chair and brought the standstill to an end. The woman gathered them to her quickly, and cursing Jake to hell, escorted her brood to the back.

  Unfortunately, this was not the end of this family’s bravery. For in his rush to press his advantage, Jake had left his deflinted pistol on the threshold. As the woman made a break with her children for the backyard and freedom, her son Jamie decided he had not yet surrendered — slipping from his mother’s arm, he went back into the house and grabbed the gun, continuing inside to confront the intruder.

  “ Well, you’re just the type we need fighting on our side,” Jake said, as he looked up to see the boy before him. The lad’s mother was just coming inside, and now Jake saw the brave look from before had been turned to one of deep worry. “I should like you to meet General Washington,” he told the boy as he continued to work on the cannon, wadding a piece of the carpet in the mouth so it would misfire. “He has a gun just like that one.”

  “ He’s a rebel and a scoundrel,” said the boy.

  “ No, no, the general is a brave man,” said Jake, picking up the lit stick. “You would like him very much, and he would like you. He likes brave lads.”

  The boy steadied the gun in both hands. In truth, he might have had a good chance of hitting Jake had it been able to fire.

  “ Put down the gun, Jamie,” said his mother behind him. “He said he wouldn’t hurt us.”

  “ You can’t trust a rebel, Mum.”

  As Jake took a step forward, he realized Mrs. Smith’s face might not only express concern for her son, but for him as well. Perhaps they might find their way to the right side and do it good service.

  They certainly had the raw materials of spunk and bravery — the boy leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger at point-blank range.

  “ The flint is in my pocket,” said Jake as he took it from the bewildered boy. “But this other gun is well-loaded. Take the boy and the other children into the woods, madam. The cannon will make a dreadful mess when it explodes.”

  Outside, the festivities were just getting under way as the old Liberty boys marched up the road with much shouting and threats to the king’s well-being. They had mounted their vat of tar on a small cart and pulled and pushed it along with such abandon that it slipped quite easily into the moat Smith and the British villain Peters had constructed.

  “ That’s what you get, Rebels,” said Peters, emerging from a nearby bush and standing over the ditch.

  “ We’ll run you out,” promised one of the few men who had not fallen into the water-filled hole. “And you, Smith — we’d hoped for better from you.”

  Smith’s response was cut short by a tremendous explosion from inside the house.

  “ My wife and children!” yelled the Tory, running for the building.

  He was no doubt surprised to find his neighbors running right behind him, echoing his concerns. Jake certainly was, as watching from the shadows he saw the men help Smith put out the flames and call for his family in the shattered ruins. Suddenly politics had ceased to matter, and the Liberty boys even held off citing this catastrophe as an example of what came from associating with the British until Smith was tearfully reunited with his family.

  The reader knows that most encounters between would-be Loyalist and ardent patriots have not ended with optimistic promises to help rebuild the former’s damaged house as this one did, but Jake could not help but smile as he slipped toward the road, realizing that the British recruiter — now helping douse the flames — would find no further succor here, and would indeed end the night by being placed under arrest.

  Jake could also not help but smile at the cries of the one man left in the muddy pit, Claus van Clynne.

  “ Help!” called van Clynne, who could not get a good enough footing in the slippery mud to pull himself out of the waist-high water. “I can’t swim. This water is deeper than the Atlantic. A rope or a hand before I drown would be greatly appreciated.”

  Not wanting to blow his cover unless absolutely necessary, Jake crept silently to the edge of the moat and made sure the Dutchman was in no immediate danger. He then trotted back toward Blom’s house, so pleased by the events of the night that he found himself wishing Johanna were just a few years older.

  Chapter Seven

  Wherein, van Clynne’s prowess as a lover is extolled, and the travelers reach British territory.

  “ So?”

  Van Clynne shot Jake a puzzled glance from the back of his horse. “So what?”

  “ How’d it go?”

  “ How’d what go?”

  “ You left your bed in the middle of the night. I assume you had a midnight rendezvous in town.”

  “ I told you, I spent the entire night sleeping outside the door to our room. Why did you bar it against me?”

  “ Oh, here now, Claus.” Jake gave him a wink. “I’ve heard stories about you Dutchmen. It’s not for nothing you wear your breeches loose, is it?”

  “ I wear my breeches in very proper fashion,” protested van Clynne, stroking his beard for emphasis.

  “ When you wear them. What, do you expect me to believe you spent the night swimming in the ocean?”

  “ Well,” said van Clynne, stifling a sniffle, “I did have things to attend to.”

  “ You’re a good man of business, squire,” chuckled Jake.

  As difficult as it is to imagine van Clynne’s already rotund body puffing, it did seem to inflate under the stimulus of Jake’s flattery. Of course, that did not stop him from continuing his complaint that he had not had much sleep.

  The detour around Ticonderoga had taken them too far to the west, and they were now traveling back toward Lake Champlain. Jake did not have a firm idea of where they were, surmising only that Crown Point — in British control — lay well to the southeast. Van Clynne evidently intended on bypassing the British frontier garrisons, much as he had tiptoed around the American stronghold at the foot of the lake. Not a horribly bad idea, all things considered.

  As a precaution before leaving the Blom house this morning, Jake had burnt papers from Schuyler allowing him to travel unmolested through patriot lines; if stopped by a British patro
l, they would raise many embarrassing questions. His only documents now were a list of Indian goods he had supposedly been sent by his father in Philadelphia to search for, and a letter from Governor Guy Carleton’s secretary vouching for his character. Both, of course, were forgeries, though Jake had some confidence no British soldiers would realize he’d never quite mastered his father’s habit of looping his o ’s at the top.

  Having set out when it was still dark, they breakfasted shortly after the sun rose, stopping on a hill that looked out toward the lake, still a good two miles distant. They split a venison pasty prepared by Johanna. It was not an equitable split — Jake felt he was doing well to get a quarter of it.

  As his experience in the ditch last night hinted, van Clynne’s reluctance to venture on the water was largely based on his fear of drowning. Nevertheless, it now appeared a wise decision, as Jake saw when he remounted his horse and looked toward Lake Champlain. A trio of gunboats were exchanging intermittent fire with two smaller craft. From the distance the battle appeared more in play than earnest. The geysers from the errant cannon fire looked like pimples suddenly erupting on the water’s clear face.

  No wonder Flanagan had asked him to complete the mission within a week, a time span that was so short as to be nearly ludicrous. The British was already testing the American defenses; the invasion might come at any moment. This might even be its vanguard.

  The boats shifted about with neither side gaining an advantage. Jake and van Clynne watched silently from the distance as the drama played out. They were so absorbed in the battle that they did not hear the approaching riders until they were almost upon them. When they did, the Dutchman merely shrugged, continuing to watch the battle. No doubt this was part of a strategy of nonchalance; Jake told himself once more that he could not have chosen a better guide.

  And so the moment of truth stole up quietly, trotting forward in the form of a British lieutenant and his sergeant, who shouted roughly at them but then likewise turned their attentions to the battle in the distance.