by Jim DeFelice
The Silver Bullet
Patriot Spy [1]
DeFelice, Jim
Black Coyote Inc. (2011)
Tags: Patriot Spy
Patriot Spyttt
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The Silver Bullet is the first volume of Jim DeFelice's rollicking, fast-paced adventure series set during the American Revolution. The series blends historical and fictional characters to recreate a thrilling time in America's history.
Across the colonies, good men take up arms against the tyranny of England and King George. But their leaders need someone who can infiltrate the British army, sneak behind enemy lines, and bring back intelligence. That man is Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs, a master spy with General George Washington's secret service. He's got a flair for danger and a knack for executing the impossible.
On the order of General Washington, Jake Gibbs travels in disguise from Albany to Montreal. There, he must find out the plans for English General Burgoyne's impending assault through the Hudson River Valley. Jake's mission is to intercept Burgoyne's orders, hidden inside a silver bullet, and deliver new and misleading orders to the British headquarters in Manhattan. To succeed, Jake must out-fight and out-smart the deadliest enemies (including the King's secret assassin) and work with the most slippery of allies (namely, the portly Dutch trader and inveterate complainer Claus van Clynne), and avoid the entanglements of a bevy of French, English and Patriotic beauties.
The Silver Bullet
By Jim DeFelice
Copyright © Jim DeFelice 1995
Introduction
Wherein, the author offers a tale of how he unearthed the exploits of American Revolutionary War Spy Jake Gibbs.
Many summers ago, my wife Debra and I were in upstate New York visiting my Uncle George and Aunt Vera, who lived on the remains of a farm that came into the Irish-American side of the family sometime just before the Revolutionary War. It’s all a subdivision now, except for their small patch of land and early 18th century house, the ruins of a barn, and a structure dug into the side of a hill that was once used as some sort of root cellar.
We did the barbecue thing in the afternoon. Later, my uncle winked and said he wanted to show me something.
Normally when he does that, it means he's managed to smuggle some single malt Scotch back from Europe, so I grabbed my beer and followed along to the root cellar.
He pulled open the old door to the building open. It took a few seconds of groping to locate and fire up his kerosene lantern. As soon as it was lit, I could see that he'd been working in here recently — the stone walls had been scrubbed and whitewashed, the stone floor swept. He reached down and pulled up first one stone and then another, piling the thin slate slabs neatly on the side. What I and the rest of the family had always thought was a solid floor actually contained a trap door.
"Come on down," he said, taking the lantern and leading the way.
At the foot of the creaky, dilapidated stairs, a dirt-encrusted bottle with a cork stopper and metal cage on top was thrust into my hands. I looked at it doubtfully, and only reluctantly took the pliers my uncle handed me.
The cork flew off with a pop.
"Try it. Go on."
Dubious does not begin to describe my attitude. Yet with the first sip, I knew I was drinking some very, very special beer.
"That isn't the half of it," said my uncle as I took another sip. "Look at these papers."
He held the lantern up and pointed to a vast mound of yellowing parchment, bundled and stacked against the wall. Uncle George reached to the nearest pile and handed me a packet that had already been opened.
"Read this one. Go ahead. Read it."
And so began my acquaintanceship with Jake Gibbs, hero of the American Revolution.
-Chapter One-
Late May, 1777
Wherein, the hero is quickly introduced, and just as quickly confronts dangers of miscellaneous nature.
Jake Stewart Gibbs stepped through the finely carpentered doorway and was immediately hooked around the neck. With a sharp yank, he was dragged inside the upstairs room of the small inn on the northern outskirts of Albany.
Taken by surprise but far from bested, Jake used only a portion of his strength as sham resistance until he could map a counterattack. It was soon done: Kicking the door closed to cut off any pursuers, he lunged forward. The momentum of his lean, six-foot-two frame pushed himself and his assailant face-first onto the large featherbed, which after all wasn't that horrible a place to be.
"So I see you've missed me," Jake said.
"You told me you'd be back in a week," answered his captor. "I've waited all this time."
"Two years?"
"Nearly."
"You never got my letters?"
"Not one," she said, a little too quickly to be believed.
"But I heard you were engaged." Jake paused to take advantage of his situation with a kiss. He'd spent the entire day riding from Kingston, hoping Sarah Thomas' lips were as full and warm as he remembered.
They were.
"Oh, that wasn't a real engagement," said Sarah. "He was a Tory. I accepted his proposal as a diversion. It was a plot."
"I see."
"I was trying on your profession," she said, reaching up to unbutton the top of Jake's waistcoat. The round disks were cut into twelve-pointed stars that caught slightly as she slipped them between the vest's felt-faced holes. The buttons were not merely fashionable; their design was a clandestine signal to a small coterie of Patriots that the sharply dressed young man leaning on the bed was an officer of the special services — a spy, to use the vernacular, though the word covers but a tenth of the activities he pursued in the name of Liberty. Jake Gibbs' adventures in New York and the Jerseys this past month and a half alone were literally the equivalent and worth of three brigades: the first had been saved because his intelligence had helped it avoid an ambush, the second was not needed for his single-handed capture of a high-ranking British officer traveling behind the lines to Philadelphia, and the third had been freed from prison through his planning and leadership of a daring midnight raid on a small town near Brunswick.
Jake Gibbs' service to Maj. Gen. Nathanael Greene, and through Greene to General Washington himself, had covered a wide swath of territory and circumstance since he joined the Rhode Islander after the disastrous 1775 winter campaign in Canada. But the only territory he was interested in exploring now sat immediately in front of him.
"You know I could never marry a Loyalist," said Sarah, pouting as she looked into Jake's deeply blue eyes to see if he had taken her seriously. "He was a traitor, and I helped the Committee arrest him. Johnny would have been proud."
Her light spirits dipped ever so slightly. Sarah, barely 20, was already a widow; her young husband John Thomas had been left for dead on the Canadian battlefield. The rout was so complete his burial had to be left to the enemy.
Jake had not only been at that battle; he had watched Captain Thomas go down. An agent and scout for General Montgomery, he was wounded himself trying to reach him. Evacuated to Albany following the fiasco, Jake had been nursed back to health by Sarah. Afterwards, they had provided each other with some solace.
"You've grown more beautiful than my imagination allowed," said Jake, brushing her cheek gently. She smiled and kissed him, her breasts overflowing the loosely strung bodice of her nightshirt as she leaned forward on the bed.
Jake rose and pulled off his coat and vest, carefully folding them on the small chest. Sarah kneeled on the bed and put her arms on his back, helping him loosen his shirt.
"When I saw you come into the tavern and talk to father," she whispered, twirling a lock of his blond ponytail around her finger, "I knew you would come upstairs
to look for me. I took off my clothes and waited."
"And what will we do if your father comes up the stairs?"
"You'll have to marry me, I suppose."
Jake had meant the question to be entirely rhetorical, and dodged her very specific answer by turning and kissing her firmly. When they broke off, he sat and started to pull off his boots. Sarah slid to the floor to assist. His cares flew off with his socks as she rubbed the muscles of his thigh and calf. He leaned back, inviting her to loosen the belt of his britches.
But as always for Jake Gibbs, trouble was lurking outside the door. In this instance, at least, it was polite enough to knock.
"Oh no, my father," yelped Sarah, grabbing for a blanket to pull over herself as she ducked behind a nearby wardrobe.
"Who is it?" Jake asked calmly. He was answered by the smack of the thick door swinging back against the wall. Two young men dressed in hunting clothes stood on the threshold, long rifles in their arms.
"Jake Gibbs?" demanded the one in front, a boy of sixteen or seventeen.
"Perhaps," Jake replied, leaning back on the bed with a slightly bemused expression.
"Let's go," said the second soldier, hiking his pants as well as his voice. If he was older than his companion, it wasn't by more than a week.
"I'd suggest you both tell me what you want," said Jake. He braced his legs and pulled them apart, making it more obvious that he had a pistol half-cocked in his hand between them. This was no small pocket pistol, but a full-bore English officer's gun, custom-made by Styan in Manchester, England a few years before. Not for Jake, of course, but its original owner was no longer in need of weaponry, making do quite nicely with a pitchfork and tail.
"I rather doubt you'd be able to aim your rifles before my pistol decorates your chest," Jake said lightly.
"Why would you shoot us?" said the first soldier, the boldness flown from his tongue. "We're on your side."
"Which side is that?"
"Colonel Flanagan wants to see you," said the second. The soldiers' plain hunting dress — common to many in the continental army and state militia — bore no military markings, let alone insignias of rank. Jake assumed they were privates from the fact that they practically genuflected when they mentioned their commander.
And they must be Americans — even the lowest redcoat conscripts would have been trained to separate when faced with a gun barrel; one shot could take the pair through both hearts.
Sighing, Jake propped himself up on the bed to get a better look at his fellows in arms. Presumably they made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in drilling.
"You are good shots with those rifles, I hope."
"They're not loaded, sir," said the soldier in front.
"Not loaded!" Jake jumped from the bed in a huff. "Trust me; the next time you burst into someone's room in the middle of the night, have your gun loaded, or at least have a bayonet handy. You'll be in for a nasty surprise if you don't."
"Our rifles don't take bayonets, sir."
Jake smirked, suddenly feeling like these boys' uncle. In truth, he was no more than six or seven years older, though his experiences sometimes made him feel a grizzled old man. He touched their rifles — handcrafted Pennsylvanians, at least — patted them each on the shoulder and set his pistol on the dresser. He winked in Sarah's direction, but she was too shy, and too concerned about her father, to let herself be seen.
"So who is this Captain Flanagan?" Jake asked.
"Colonel Flanagan, sir," said the first man. "He is General Schuyler's aide."
"Schuyler's with congress in Philadelphia."
"He's on his way back. Colonel Flanagan has orders from him, sir, pertaining to you. He requested your presence in the name of the general."
Jake sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated the situation. Maj. Gen. Philip Schuyler was technically in command of the northern department of the army, which included Albany as well as most of northern New York and New England. But congress had superseded his control a few months before by placing Horatio Gates in charge of the troops at Ticonderoga and northward. The political row was quite notorious; you couldn't get within a hundred yards of General Washington's headquarters, let alone Philadelphia, without hearing some rumor of its latest development.
Jake had a low opinion of Schuyler and a somewhat worse appreciation of Gates. Still, he was not in a position to disobey a summons from a major general, or even one of his aides. Most likely, the colonel was only looking for information — call it gossip about his commander's situation.
But how had he learned of Jake's arrival? Jake was supposed to be on leave; the only person in Albany who knew he was here was Sarah, starting to shiver despite the blanket.
"Tell you what, friends," said Jake, taking a stagy glance toward the wardrobe. "It's worth half a crown if you find me in, say, half an hour."
To their credit and his frustration, the patriots couldn't be bought. The best he could do was make them wait outside for a minute, during which he kissed Sarah and promised to return as soon as he told Schuyler's ape to fly off. Jake and his horse were soon trotting behind as the men double-timed to Schuyler's mansion on the banks of the Hudson.
He didn't need them to lead him through the streets and then the half mile or so south of town; he was familiar enough with the Pastures, having gone there some years before while traveling with his father as assistant and secretary. He especially loathed its overwrought Chippendale roof railing, which crowned a pretentious and yet somehow frumpy Georgian-style house. To Jake, who had been in Britain but four years before, the Pastures was at best a third-rate copy of a third-rate English country home, hardly worthy of a true democrat. Especially if the democrat was of Dutch extraction.
But then Jake was always finding the Dutch a confused and confusing race.
"Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs."
Jake extended his hand to meet Flanagan's as the officer walked across the large study where he'd been waiting. The colonel, in his mid-fifties, was dressed in a well-tailored blue and white uniform, with officer's silver epaulettes. Stocky and several inches shorter than Jake, he wore a powdered bag wig, which had gone more or less out of fashion even in the provincial cities with the onset of war. But then Jake didn't think he'd been asked here to comment on Flanagan's coiffure. He stood stiffly in front of the proffered chair and asked why he had been sent for.
"Relax a moment," replied Flanagan. "Would you like a drink? I'm sure the general would insist."
Schuyler's taste in Madeira was legendary, but Jake declined. Sarah was waiting. Flanagan went to the sideboard and poured himself a half-glass.
"You've heard, of course, that General Schuyler has countered the New Englanders and their slander," Flanagan said as he carefully measured his drink. "There are a few i's to be dotted, but Gates is out and the old man is back. You can count on that. General Washington himself is lobbying on his behalf."
Flanagan's comment about the New Englanders, though true enough, was a bit of a faux pas — born in Philadelphia, Jake had spent much time in Massachusetts and had originally been enlisted as an officer in a Massachusetts regiment. No matter where his superiors lined up politically, he felt close to the New Englanders whose spirit had first imbibed him with a lust for freedom. But he said nothing.
"He's standing for state governor as well, you know," added Flanagan, whether to try and awe him or make idle conversation, Jake couldn't be sure. "He'll win that battle, too."
"No doubt. So why precisely am I here, Colonel?"
Until now, Flanagan's manner had been anything but impressive; Jake theorized he was merely trying to draw out the latest command gossip. But as Flanagan turned to answer Jake's question, he seemed to grow several inches. His face, which had appeared a bit flaccid and tired, now suddenly looked vigorous and determined. Jake had seen this in many officers promoted from the working classes because of merit in the field — they were awkward in the drawing rooms, but sharp swords in battle.
"The
Northern Department has need of the Revolution's finest spy," said Flanagan. "General Washington directed General Greene to find you. He in turn sent word that you would be here — a most fortunate coincidence."
"With all due respect, Colonel," said Jake, "I'm not in the habit of spending my time on local conspiracies. I do not want to sound like I have an inflated head, but surely there are other men available for your local problems."
"This is not a local problem." Flanagan's voice had the measured cadence of a man used to giving orders. "The Revolution is at stake."
Jake wasn't swayed at all. Inevitably, when someone used such inflated terms, the job turned out to be the simple apprehension of a merchant who sold a few grains of contraband tea on the side. "Well, if it's only that," he said sarcastically.
But Flanagan's voice, instead of cracking with fury at being found out, dropped to a bare whisper. "Burgoyne is planning an invasion down the Hudson. We don't know when; we don't know by what route. If we cannot stop him, the continent will be split in two."
A bucket of snow could not have sobered Jake's disposition more effectively. As he waited for Flanagan to continue, he felt his heart start to pump. A certain itch developed in his thigh muscles, and his senses sharpened so acutely that a piece of dust could not fall in the room without his being aware of it. For if certain physiques are made by nature for certain tasks, Jake's was tuned for facing danger.
"We need intelligence on the British plans," said Flanagan. "We need it as soon as possible — it already may be too late. Our forces are too small to be spread out across the entire state. If we do not know the proper route, and when to expect them, we will surely be beaten. Ticonderoga will fall, then Saratoga — and the British will stand at the head of the Hudson. All will be threatened, including Albany."