The silver bullet ps-1

by Jim DeFelice

  “ And who should I say I’m supposed to kill?”

  “ You don’t say under any circumstances. If you do, they’ll have to kill you.”

  The reader will be left to imagine the conversation as it proceeded, with van Clynne continuing to question the contingencies and Jake continuing to assure him that it would not matter. The discussion continued in hushed tones as they rode amid early rising British soldiers and local residents to Pearl Street, where the boat to take van Clynne to Howe would be waiting.

  The masts of the British Navy, along with the various commercial vessels in port, formed a hedgerow across the front of Brooklyn Heights. Admiral Lord Richard Howe’s flagship the Eagle, where his brother General Sir William Howe was staying, was a good distance out, near Staten Island. It was a heady, proud ship of the line, and while far from the biggest in the British fleet, nonetheless it was a leviathan here.

  Van Clynne tried not to look at any part of the water, not even the seafront before them as they approached the port. Instead he conjured the vision of his pleasantly landlocked homestead. He could see himself staring up at the long gabled roof, admiring the smart windows, the small roof over the door. All he had to do was close his eyes, get across the water, and give Howe his bullet.

  “ Oh my God!” said van Clynne suddenly. “I don’t have the bullet.”

  “ I’ve got it right here,” said Jake. “Relax.”

  The admonition was answered by a sharp smack across the back that sent Jake flying into the dust. It had not come from van Clynne — the sergeant of the guard and three of his minions stood before the portly Dutchman.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Wherein, van Clynne overcomes his fear of water in a most unconventional but expedient manner.

  “ Where are the two men I sent to escort you last night?” the sergeant demanded of van Clynne.

  “ What do you mean, knocking my friend down?” responded the Dutchman. “And where did you come from?”

  “ We have been standing right here the whole time. You would have seen us if not for your incessant jabbering. Your friend would do well to stay out of our way,” he added. “Or perhaps we will find some use for him.”

  “ You can be sure that I will make a full report of this to General Howe,” said van Clynne.

  “ Never mind that. What did you do to my men?”

  “ Your men,’ replied the squire with consternation equal to the sergeants, “can’t hold their liquor. They took me to a tavern and proceeded to make a spectacle of themselves. I had come to expect more from the British Army. It had been said, in fact, that the men of your regiment were considerably more accomplished at whoring than the army as a whole.” Van Clynne touched the point of the sergeant’s sword gingerly, then pushed it away. “The next time you post an honor guard, I would expect the chosen men to be of a higher caliber. If they want to guard me, then they had better keep up with me in all departments.”

  The sergeant’s face, which has started so haughty and self-assured, began to melt into a slippery mass of confusion. With van Clynne in control, Jake’s presence was only an unnecessary complication; he was best off slipping away.

  Except that the bullet had flown from his hand before van Clynne could grab it. Now where was it?”

  On hands and knees, Jake scoured the ground in search of the ball as van Clynne continued to harangued the sergeant. The Dutchman had a special quality about him when he really got going. Here was a man who might sell London Bridge back to the king.

  Ah, but could he sell it to Miss Pinkelton, who must be the redheaded girl at the very far end of the block? What other young woman would be dressed so smartly this early in the day, and walking here besides? The sergeant — and the nearby whaleboat — had obviously been waiting for her, not van Clynne.

  Jake saw the girl with one eye; with the other he spotted the bullet in the dust. He scooped it up and jumped to his feet.

  “ Now that I see you are in good hands,” he told van Clynne, “I’ll be taking my leave. General Bacon is expecting me.” He reached into his pocket and took out a blank paper; as he handed it to van Clynne he passed the bullet along with it. “You’ll give General Howe my note?”

  “ Oh, yes,” said van Clynne.

  “ Let me see that,” said the sergeant, grabbing at the paper.

  The bullet rolled from van Clynne’s palm down his jacket sleeve well before he let go of the paper. The sergeant opened the scrap furiously — only to discover it was blank.

  “ Naturally,” said Jake. “You don’t think I’m going to risk something like that falling into rebel hands. They’re all around us, even here.”

  There was a definite magic ink craze in the colonies, the sergeant concluded; next he would find one used for a shopping list. But there was nothing to do but give it to van Clynne.

  “ Row him out to the general. I’m sure he’ll find him a comfortable companion.”

  “ I’m not leaving this spot without an apology,” said van Clynne. “My friend was knocked down and I was treated most rudely. I deserve and apology, and possibly restitution.”

  “ Don’t push your luck,” said the sergeant.

  Though van Clynne’s sense of dignity had little need for prodding, he continued to protest as part of a delaying tactic initiated by certain frantic hand signals and gestures Jake made before he ran off down the street.

  The secret agent, careful to block Miss Pinkleton’s view of the confrontation, doffed his hat with a sweeping gesture as she approached. Red curls flowed from beneath her bonnet, and her light purple dress flared in a satiny glow from her hips. She might be sixteen. Certainly she had not wielded her fan often, as he could tell from the awkward way she unfolded it and tried to flutter it before her face.

  “ Miss Melanie Pinkleton?”

  “ Yes,” she replied in a bashful voice.

  “ Allow me to introduce myself,” said Jake as he straightened. “I am Jake Gibbs, on special assignment to General Howe.

  “ Oh,” said the young woman. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Jake stood closer, speaking in confidential tones. He was more than a foot taller than she was; her body was so slight he could easily have tucked her under and arm and carried her away.

  But these operations required a certain delicacy, with Howe’s guards only a half block away.

  “ The general has asked me to speak with you confidentially.”

  “ I’m on my way to see him now.”

  “ Here, quickly, come this way with me,” Jake said, tugging her arm in the direction of a side street.

  “ I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “ Please,” said Jake, smiling with all of his might. “You would not wish to present a scene on ship, would you?”

  A look came over her face, the dark threatening cloud that spoils a perfect summer afternoon. “It’s her, isn’t it?” Mrs. Loring.”

  Jake nodded solemnly. Miss Melanie Pinkelton suddenly appeared close to tears.

  “ He told me he was going to break it off with her,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “ Come with me, Melanie,” said Jake, gently wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “Let us talk for a bit in private. I know a fine tavern nearby, run by a friend of mine, a certain Paul Smith.”

  “ He’s a rebel.”

  “ Well,” said Jake, “we wouldn’t want to hold that against him, would we?”

  Undoubtedly, a philosopher of the four humors basic to human life would be able to explain van Clynne’s fear of the ocean as an imbalance relating to the overabundance of liquid in his person; like naturally repels like, and thus he seeks to avoid it at all cost. Van Clynne’s own theory related to a childhood memory — he had been dropped into a large barrel of water as a child and held down for several minutes, and ever since worried about being drowned.

  The squire is a man of business and not science, and thus will be forgiven for mistaking the origin of his fear. The relevance here, however, is that once
in the rowboat, he could think of nothing but that event, and as a result, his knees began shaking so badly the sergeant charged with rowing him to Howe demanded to know what the problem was.

  “ Yer gonna shake us right into the water, laddie. Get a grip on your knees.”

  Van Clynne nodded weakly and pulled them together with his hands.

  “ First time out in a boat?”

  Van Clynne shook his head. With even this gentle motion his stomach threatened evasive maneuvers.

  “ First time with a Scotsman, I daresay,” ventured the sergeant. “Yer in good hands, laddie — never lost one yet.”

  Van Clynne gave him a brief, weak smile, his eyes still locked on the floorboards. The wood, though wet, allowed him at least a vague fantasy that he was on the solid ground of an old tavern.

  “ Have ya seen a bonnet as smart as this one?” offered the Scotsman, trying to divert van Clynne’s attention. He was referring to his headgear, one of the most distinctive marks of his unit, the 42 ^ Royal Highland Regiment of Foot; aka the Black Watch. A round, overgrown beanie with a plaid band and a large, fuzzy crown that shot up above the wearer’s head, it looked as if an exotic, blue-skinned animal had encamped on his head.

  The oarsman’s idea of stealing the Dutchman’s attention from the sea was a good one, and might have worked especially well in this case, given van Clynne’s strong feelings on the subject of hats. Unfortunately, his question had the effect of drawing van Clynne’s eyes to his head — and the vast blue ocean behind it.

  In no more than a second, the squire’s view changed from sea green ocean to dark, blank space. Van Clynne had fainted.

  “ In short, miss, the general is a rogue.” Jake pushed her coffee cup aside — for some reason, Paul Smith’s inn was always out of tea — and leaned across the table to take her hands. “You affections are wasted on him.”

  “ But he is so handsome and…” Her voice trailed off.

  “ And you love him?”

  She started crying again. Jake took a new handkerchief and pressed it gently against her cheeks.

  Now the reader will undoubtedly protest that Jake Gibbs calling another man a rogue was but the latest chapter in the famous history of pot and kettle. But Jake is not without his moral codes, and he is not being completely hypocritical here, given the girl’s tender age. Besides, he has a much larger purpose in mind.

  “ I wonder if this whole episode is not the story of our country in a nutshell,” said Jake, helping her dry her tears. “The British beguile us, take what they want, and leave us for someone else.”

  “ The girl, gaining control of herself, looked at him coldly. “You’re a rebel, aren’t you?”

  “ A patriot, perhaps, not a rebel, miss,” he said, smiling. “But what I’ve told you about the general is true enough. He has a wife at home, you know, and many mistresses. Mrs. Loring is just the most infamous.”

  “ We’ve sworn allegiance to the King!”

  “ Does that mean we should let the British treat us as chattel? Should we be subservient to their foulest desires? Don’t we owe allegiance to ourselves first?”

  “ You speak well, sir. I fear you’re merely trying to take advantage of me, like the general.”

  Jake rose to go. “Not at all. But if you’re more interested in love than politics, you might find Smith’s lad there of some interest. And about your own age.”

  Miss Melanie Pinkleton frowned, but Jake noted that she not only stayed seated as he walked toward the door, but motioned to the boy that her cup in was in need of refilling.

  “ God, he’s a plump one.”

  “ I don’t see why we’re fighting for these Tories. They’re living off the fat of the land, and we barely get a lime every other week.”

  “ Sharp now, don’t drop him. Watch it!”

  Van Clynne plunged unceremoniously to the deck of the flagship. The seamen undid the ropes they had used to hoist him, leaving him sprawled like a beached octopus.”

  The fall to the deck caused a slight concussion and headache; it also raised certain voices in van Clynne’s head, most prominent among them those of his father and grandfather, who told him to get off his duff and get on with the business of winning back the family estate.

  Van Clynne was helped to his feet by a member of the general’s guard. The soldier escorted him to the quarterdeck of the Eagle, where Howe sat on a couch under a red-striped tarpaulin before the captain’s quarters. He looked for all the world as if he were enjoying breakfast on his country estate, having just come in from the hunt. A soldier stood behind him as a waiter; two guards were a few yards back. Otherwise the quarterdeck was empty. The ship itself had only a bare skeleton crew aboard.

  Many people have had their criticisms of General Howe, but no one has ever claimed he was not a gentleman of the highest order. After his visitor was announced as an important messenger from the Canadian provinces, Howe raised his hand and with a sweeping invitation asked van Clynne is he had “supped.”

  “ No, sir,” said the Dutchman, till not recovered from his journey. “It is a bit early in the morning for dinner.”

  “ Well, join me anyway,” said the general. “My officers are seeing to their troops, and my brother is off on inspection. I do not like to eat alone. I am awaiting a visitor, but you can keep me company until then.”

  “ Miss Pinkleton had been delayed,” said van Clynne unwisely. The general’s face clouded as the Dutchman fished for an alibi. “There was some sort of commotion on shore. I heard several women fighting, I believe.”

  “ Damn. It was Mrs. Loring, wasn’t it? They saw each other, did they?”

  Van Clynne shrugged. “Well, come sit with me. Damn. Women will be my ruin.”

  “ I agree with that, sir. Most heartily. Men are always too generous in their affections, and it leads us to vulnerability.”

  Jakes instructions had been simple and direct — get aboard, give Howe the bullet, and come back to New York as quickly as possible. But several things occurred to van Clynne at the moment. First, that this might be an opportunity to gain valuable intelligence from the general about his battle plans, information that General Washington would cherish so deeply that the return of his land would be beyond question. Second, Jake had no legal authority over him. Third, even if he were still feeling a bit seasick, that was no reason not to eat something.

  And last but not least, anything he could do to delay the torture of another water crossing was well worth the effort or risk.

  So he sat down to dine with General Howe, and with the first whiff of food felt his stomach undertake a remarkable recovery. Indeed, the plate had lain on the table no more than half a minute before van Clynne allowed as how perhaps he was feeling a bit hungry after all. The general smiled, and instructed his man to bring another helping. The food was rabbit, skillfully cooked in what the general claimed was a French style, slowly roasted on a spit.

  “ Is that so?”

  “ Yes, and a bit of wild parsley, I dare say, would add more flavor.”

  Howe was pleased by the fact that he was eating in a style that owed it origins not to a cowardly if formidable enemy, but one that had been defeated more than a hundred years before. His mood grew steadily expansive, aided by several draughts of what he called his “morning Madeira.” Within half an hour he had forgotten his disappointing new mistress completely.

  Van Clynne, too, began to feel more and more in command of the situation. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he envisioned himself as being in a position to change the course of the war, not merely with the message he was delivering, but with his sharp business sense. For what else is war by a negotiation brought to its extreme? And who was this man sitting across from him but the head negotiator for the other side, as least in this section of the continent? A man strongly partial to the American side, according to all reports.

  Two eminent men of business, sitting down to supper — untold fortuned had been made in this way.

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nbsp; Who among us has not been carried away by such grand visions? Especially when the wine is good and flowing so freely?

  “ Is this not the best wine you’ve tasted in the colonies?” Howe demanded as they paused, waiting for their chocolate.

  “ Begging your pardon, sir, but wine is wine. The Portuguese are experts at it, but it is just a fashion. Now ale — ale is altogether an art.”

  “ Ale? That’s a commoner’s drink.”

  “ On the contrary. It has been blessed by kings, even in your great country. Why, it came from the Egyptians themselves — I have it on good authority that their pyramid-shaped temples were actually brew houses.”

  “ Indeed,” said Howe. He was not used to finding underlings so knowledgeable or agreeable.

  “ Do you have any aboard?”

  “ Pyramids?”

  “ Good British ale, General,” said van Clynne, bumping up Howe’s patriotism. “This drink the Portuguese make — well, it will do for breakfast, I suppose, but I have always wondered what the English could do if they decided to be grape growers. Then we would have wine. You have only to taste British ale and you understand perfection. But I wonder if the Portuguese hold back with the wine they ship out of their country. I tell you, sir, I don’t fully trust them. They are very warlike.”

  “ Warlike?”

  “ Naturally aggressive. I wonder if they aren’t using some of their islands as a base for spying on England. I have often thought of how they might be defeated in a war. I would very much like to hear your famous tactical skills applied to such a problem.

  “ A flanking assault, of course,” said Howe, his voice assume the strong tone of a man born to lead troops to battle — not to mention draw vast squiggles and arrows on oversized maps. “Sailor, a cask of the best ale on deck immediately! And find out where our chocolate is.”

  Chapter Thirty