The silver bullet ps-1

by Jim DeFelice

  Or darkness came on, when he wouldn’t see them.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Wherein, Jake is confronted with the British version of justice.

  Jake’s attempt to punch the British sergeant who was pulling him to his feet was thwarted by another soldier from the rear. Numerous hands were now clamped upon him, and he was thrust back to the ground. A crowd began to gather; if they had been slow to help the redcoats, they made up for it with threats against Jake now. He was blamed for everything from the burning of New York to the introduction I small pox. The pitch of the bystanders soon reached such proportions that the soldiers were as much protecting him as preventing his escape. Indeed, escaped would now have been difficult, as his legs and arms were clamped in chains.

  A succession of officers arrived to take charge of the scene: a lieutenant relieving the sergeant, a captain the lieutenant, a major the captain. They got as far as a colonel before they felt satisfied that there was sufficient authority to take him to the fort.

  It was not immediately clear what would become of him there, or at least it was not clear to Jake. He had said nothing the entire time, and they had said nothing to him; he had not been searched, except for weapons. The bullet he had snatched from Herstraw remained at the toe of his boot.

  Jake was prepared to trade his life for the surety that the patriot plot remained undiscovered. But he couldn’t simply drop the bullet on the street; even if he could get it from his boot unseen, the fact that it was made of silver guaranteed that it would be quickly noticed. The best solution was to drop it in the river. Getting there, however, was a major problem. He couldn’t just ask to be taken out for a boat ride.

  Or could he?

  “ Now that you’ve calmed yourself,” declared Jake when his captors paused some distance from the crowd, “I demand to be taken to General Howe.”

  “ You’re in no position to demand anything,” said the colonel. His eyes were set so deeply in his face that Jake wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he labored each night with a vise to drive them farther into his skull. “We caught you in the act of sedition.”

  “ I’m on a mission from General Burgoyne. I demand to see Sir William Howe personally.”

  “ Oh you are, are ya?” The speaker was a bulky sergeant who emerged from the knot of redcoats around him. His dress and in particular his hat immediately set him off as a member of the Scottish Black Watch. “There seems to be a run on you fellows today.”

  “ Explain yourself,” directed the colonel.

  “ I took one of ‘em out there myself this noon. A peculiar fat fellow. Dutch. Never saw such a bad case of sea shivers in all my time — fellow fainted before we were off the pier.”

  “ I don’t know about any of that,” said Jake over the snickers. “Just take me to Howe.”

  The colonel held a brief conference with the other officers. It was decided the prisoner should be presented to the general, who could sort this out for himself. He was thus led to a whaleboat for the voyage.

  Jake’s idea had been to sit by the side of the boat, sneak the bullet out and drop it overboard. He would then be free to deliver a verbal message that echoed the one van Clynne had delivered.

  If he ran into anyone who already knew him — or rather, thought they knew him — he would have to explain how he’d come to be in Canada, much less join General Burgoyne’s command. But that tale could be easily invented. In the worse case, he could simply leap overboard and sink down to the bottom of the river, dragged down by his manacles and leg irons, taking his secrets to a watery grave. This was just the brave sort of thing that spies and secret agents are forever doing to encourage Posterity to write their names large in the history books, inspiring generations of schoolboys and picking up the tourist trade.

  Lest you think our hero incurably romantic, not that he was much more inclined toward staying alive and living to a quiet old age. But his prospects steadily dimmed as he was tightly bundled for the voyage with thick strips of woolen cloth torn from a blanket, chained to an anchor and placed between four men in the large boat. Hercules himself could not have broken free, not matter how heroic his mood.

  Jake had one consolation. Considerable time had transpired since he and van Clynne had parted ways. As he had outlined the plan, van Clynne’s mission aboard ship should have lasted no more than five minutes. He interpreted van Clynne’s aversion both to water and the English as reinforcing those instructions; the Dutchman was not one to linger in disagreeable circumstances, let alone dangerous ones. The fact that a sergeant ashore reported having transported him earlier in the day added to Jake’s ease. He concluded that his compatriot’s phase of the mission had gone well — we will avoid the descriptive “swimmingly” as being in dubious taste. In Jake’s opinion, van Clynne must be halfway to Albany by now.

  So consider his surprise when, upon being hauled aboard the Eagle, he looked around the deck for a place to dispose of his bullet and found Claus van Clynne instead.

  His mind did not concede immediately what his eyes showed it. No, it took an eternity for these organs to agree that the rotund man walking toward him was indeed his erstwhile assistant. There was much blinking in the meantime. There was also much internal cursing.

  “ Jake, it’s about time you got here,” said van Clynne, clapping him on the shoulder. “Why are you chained? Was it the only way to get you into the boat? You’ve got to overcome that fear of water, man; there’s nothing to it.”

  Jake tried through certain small head and eye movements to warn van Clynne away.

  “ You know the prisoner?” demanded one of the officers.

  “ Know him? He’s my fellow agent.”

  The guards took a great interest in that.

  “ We have been trying to intercept a traitor named Herstraw,” said van Clynne. “We’ve followed him all the way from Quebec.”

  “ He told us nothing of that,” said one of the officers. The soldiers who did not have their guns drawn on Jake trained them on van Clynne.

  “ Of course not. The Sons of Liberty have disguised themselves as his Majesty’s subjects, and lurk everywhere. Did you capture this Herstraw fellow?”

  Van Clynne looked directly at Jake. They were now committed on this path, and Jake knew he would doom not only himself and van Clynne, but the entire mission by trying to change it.

  “ He escaped, but I killed one of his men.” Jake displayed a look of disgust that would have soured the milk in a cow. “These buffoons crashed in on me just as I caught him. They were so inept, I thought at first they must be rebels themselves.”

  A general commotion ensued, with the various members of Jake’s guard protesting that they had only been doing their duty and why did he run and how did they even know his story was true?

  The argument had not progressed very far when Howe returned to the ship. Though relieved by the fact that the rumors of a rebel riot in the city were unfounded, the commander was nonetheless in a foul mood — not only had his day been disrupted, but a quick visit to Mrs. Loring’s house had found her not at home.

  Jake and van Clynne soon found themselves at the apex of a large semicircle, delivering their story to the general and his audience. Van Clynne, of course, was constitutionally unable to deliver any speech briefly. His entire recitation of his trip from Montreal (where of course he hadn’t actually been) to Ticonderoga (another place he had not burdened with his presence) took nearly a half hour, not counting all the diversions and stops along the way. In brief, his story was this:

  Burgoyne had charged him with bringing the message to Howe, and after much difficulty, he had. Jake, as loyal an assistant as God ever made, thought naturally he might be been even better if he had been born Dutch, accompanied him south. En route, a man named Herstraw had tried to get into their good graces by traveling with them. Thanks to a hastily if much explained stratagem, they were able to deduce that he was a rebel agent working to apprehend them. The pair kept their guard up so that he
was forced to accompany them all the way until the city. Thereupon, they split their forces — Jake would endeavor to lead the man astray, pretending to have the bullet, and van Clynne would go aboard and deliver his message. Back on shore they would unite, break up the Sons of Liberty spy ring, and expose the traitorous snakes, much to the joy of all England.

  While van Clynne spoke, Jake tried with various signals to ask if he had shown Howe the ruby-hilted knife. But van Clynne ignored or could not correctly interpret his pantomime, and merely increased the volume at which he expounded his tale.

  There were more holes in the story than a fisherman’s net. Why, for instance, had van Clynne neglected to mention the plot once he was aboard with the general?

  “ Well, Sir William, that is an excellent question, and points up my own inferior nature. Frankly, I was overawed by your august personage. AS you know, your hospitality so overwhelmed me when I first came aboard that I fully forgot my mission and became engrossed in your learned disputation.

  “ And how did this Herstraw realize that you were a messenger?” demanded the general, not in the least swayed by van Clynne’s flattery.

  “ A good question, Sir William, one that I will defer to my assistant, as he is more familiar with that portion of the case.”

  “ Because, General, Major William Herstraw was enrolled as an officer in your messenger service, and thus gained access to the comings and goings of all messengers.”

  Jake’s excuse was perfect, but he could not have angered Howe more had he accuse the general of trying to steal the queen’s handkerchief. To a man, the British officers on deck held their breath as their leader’s fury simmered.

  “ The same man was assigned to deliver your last message to Burgoyne,” Jake said quickly. “He was clearly a double agent, and saw van Clynne get his assignment.”

  The general shouted for the staff officer in charge of dispatches. The man came running from another part of the ship; asked if a Major Herstraw worked for him, he responded affirmatively.

  “ Did you know he was a rebel?” demanded the general.

  The officer began a vigorous defense, saying that Herstraw was among the best of his men.

  “ Why do you think he was able to get through such hostile territory so quickly?” Jake asked.

  “ What proof do you have?” the staff officer countered.

  “ If you’ll unbind my hands, I can give you the message he intended to trade for the real one. The coward handed over the silver bullet when he saw I had him cornered, and confessed it all before his escape. Apparently, the rebels have laid a trap and wish you to attack north.”

  The guards loosened his binds enough to allow Jake to reach inside his boot and retrieve the bullet.

  The two notes from Burgoyne were quickly compared. Obviously, one was a forgery. But which one? The note that van Clynne handed over had purportedly been written by a secretary, with the general merely countersigning. The other was a full, if brief, letter in what seemed to be the general’s hand.

  “ The signature is certainly his,” said Howe, examining van Clynne’s message. “But this letter you say is a forgery seems to be in the same hand.”

  “ Does it make sense, General, that such a man as Gentleman Johnny would stoop to write an entire letter himself?” asked van Clynne.

  “ No, it doesn’t,” said Howe, crumpling the note in his hand. “Nor does this sound like the braggart, begging for assistance.” He threw the letter overboard.

  Jake barely kept himself from breaking into a smile. Finally, he thought, his mission was at an end.

  Not quite.

  “ But we have no positive proof of your identity either,” said the general. “Take them to prison.”

  “ I have the coin that all messengers carry,” said Jake. “Burgoyne gave it to the squire, and he gave it to me in case I was captured.”

  The captain of the messages inspected the token. It was, of course, authentic, having come from Herstraw himself.

  “ But he could have taken it from our man as easily as he stole this bullet.”

  “ True,” said the general. “It seems to me they’re a little too clever, especially this Dutchman — take them away and call my officers to conference.”

  “ The knife,” hissed Jake.

  The knife?

  “ Ah yes,” remembered van Clynne, producing the weapon from inside his coat.

  The soldiers surrounding Howe did not know the significance of the weapon and jumped to their commander’s protection. A short scuffle ensued as van Clynne attempted to peacefully hand over the blade and the soldiers fought not to receive it.

  “ Bring me the knife,” said Howe, who of course did understand its significance. He eyed it — or more accurately, the man who had produced it — suspiciously. “Why did you not show me this before.”

  “ Well, sir, I, uh, didn’t. Considering my orders.”

  Howe pursed his lips. The agent was quite right not to speak of his mission or his identity. On the other hand, he could not think of a more unlikely member of the Secret Department.

  “ How did you come by this — and why would someone of your station be asked to deliver a message?”

  “ I can say nothing, except that I am a Dutch cousin, as it were, on borrowed assignment.”

  Such was the mystery connected with the branch that Howe was not sure whether or not van Clynne might actually be telling the truth. He was about to send for the one man who might have some hint — General

  Bacon — when Bacon’s boat pulled up alongside the Eagle, unbeckoned.

  “ Another nest of vipers crushed,” said the intelligence chief preemptively as he walked onto the quarterdeck to report to Howe. A flock of subordinate officers traipsed at his heels, careful to keep several paces back. “My men apprehended several Sons of Liberty in German uniform. Dr. Gibbs — what are you doing here?”

  “ It’s a long story, General, but the short of it is, I have been mistaken as a Whig.”

  “ You know him?” asked Howe.

  “ We’re to have dinner Sunday,” said Bacon, “to discuss certain aspects of the voodoo. Your name came up earlier today, Gibbs, in connection with a plot by these rebels. Have you gotten involved with them?”

  “ A good question,” said Howe, pulling the general aside. Bacon’s men gathered around him, listening to the discussion. Their backs were between Jake and the two generals, effectively screening them from view.

  The nature of the Secret Department meant that only a handful of agents were known to Bacon, and at any given moment there were bound to be a few operating in his theater whom he had no authority over or knowledge of. A man assigned to Carleton or Burgoyne could easily be a stranger to him.

  But this Dutchman?

  “ The doctor, perhaps,” said Bacon. “I sense something about him that stands out. On the other hand, we used foreign agents in Spain for the prince’s assassination.”

  The two generals punctuated their debate by stealing glances at the pair of prisoners. Though he couldn’t overhear, Jake knew precisely what the problem must be — who would believe van Clynne as a secret agent?

  And yet, wasn’t that the most powerful argument in his favor?

  Howe called one of the ship’s officers over to join the conference. In the meantime, Bacon took a knot of men aside and dispatched several back to the city, whether on this or other business, there was no way for Jake to tell.

  “ Once more the debate was rejoined, this time continuing for nearly a quarter of an hour — a comparatively short time for a British command conference, as anyone familiar with Howe’s notorious delays attacking New York will realize. Finally, the remaining subordinates parted and the two generals emerged nodding. They directed their attention toward Jake, not van Clynne. Which was fine with all concerned.

  “ You’re a doctor?” Howe asked.

  “ I’m not admitted in London,” said Jake, “but I attended Edinburgh.”

  “ My officers say h
e has the best headache remedy in the colonies,” said Bacon. “But of this profession as a messenger I’m completely unaware.”

  “ It’s not a profession, Sir Henry. I met Squire van Clynne while on a trip to obtain rattlesnake venom from the Indians near Canada. WE fell in as fellow travelers, and when he needed assistance, I rendered it. I had not realized he was in the service of the Crown. I assumed that, since he was Dutch — “

  “ Careful,” said van Clynne, warming to his role. “Remember your oath.”

  “ What oath is that?” said Bacon, his birthmark glowing.

  “ I have taken an oath not to reveal his oath,” which itself is based on a prior oath of my own,” said van Clynne. “Kill me for it, if it is your pleasure.”

  “ It may well be a pleasure,” said Bacon, turning back to Jake. “You have been north before.”

  “ Many times, Sir Henry. My travels take me far and wide.”

  “ Behind rebel lines.”

  “ I have sworn allegiance to the king, and will do so at any time or place the general proscribes. I have lost my land for hit. I am not a traitor, sir. Science requires me to travel. My headache cure, for example.” Jake turned to Howe, who had a skeptical look on his face. “Unfortunately, my latest duties detained me from obtaining the ingredients necessary for my potion, General, but I will gladly supply you with a complimentary bottle from my next batch. It would be most beneficial to me, actually, to have your endorsement.”

  It would be fitting, would it not, if the matter of Jake’s identity could be settled by some headache powder? After all, the Americans were the biggest headache Howe and all of Britain could ever have, and the expedient of using a cure for a much small one to escape would be but poetic justice. Unfortunately, neither Howe nor Bacon was much on poetry. When they retreated a ways on day to discuss the matter once again, Jake would not have bet a farthing that Shakespeare entered the discussion.

  This new conference was cut short by the arrival of a fresh contingent of guards who ushered a small group of prisoners aboard. The men were chained and in very poor condition, with welts and bruises covering their bodies. Dragged and pushed forward, the poor wretches were too beaten even to groan with pain.