by Jim DeFelice
“Arnold was an ass,” added Du Calvet.
“I quite agree,” said Jake, who blamed the commander for his friend Captain Thomas’s death. “But your spies have not done a good enough job informing General Schuyler. Otherwise I would not have had to come north.”
“Perhaps the problem is that neither Schuyler nor Gates wants to believe what we tell them,” answered Du Calvet. “And perhaps Congress would do better not to keep changing commanders every time the wind blows.”
“Since you don’t want me here, I assume you will help me leave.”
“Gladly. I will have a wagon and papers waiting for you tonight.”
“Tomorrow morning, on the Post Road south of Montreal. I am otherwise engaged this evening.”
“Where?”
“At the ball.”
“You’re insane!”
“Frankly, I think I dance rather well,” said Jake. “Have the wagon waiting.”
“The British army would love to hang you,” said Du Calvet solemnly. They were his parting words, except for curses when Jake promised to save him a dance.
Upon reflection, Jake might have admitted that he had gone about things a bit rashly. A more cautious spy would have snuck into town at night, waking Du Calvet or some other American sympathizer in bed, persuading him to gather information while he hid in the attic or cupboard. But Jake considered the words “cautious” and spy to be contradictions. Besides, he didn’t particularly like attics and grew claustrophobic in cupboards.
In any event, any admonition toward caution was now beside the point: He was sitting in a room of the Governor General’s Palace, enjoying the attentions of a small coterie of ladies, none of whom he recognized from his last sojourn in Montreal – and none of whom, he had reason to hope, would recognize him.
He’d breezed past the most difficult portion of the gauntlet nearly an hour before, clutching Marie’s arm firmly as he captain took her forward and with great ceremony introduced them to Burgoyne.
It was not for nothing that Burgoyne was called Gentleman Johnny. The general was a handsome man, perfectly tailored – if Jake looked like a dandy, Burgoyne had him beat by three leagues and a half. The fifty-four-year-old general’s jaw clenched and jutted as he threw a gratuitous bon mot in Marie’s direction, showing off his Parisian French. She looked quite ravishing in her fine yellow dress, he said; she would fit in perfectly in Westminster.
Burgoyne then turned to Jake, who pretended to practically faint at the introduction. The general looked at him oddly for a moment, as if they had met. They hadn’t, as far as Jake knew, though he proclaimed such had long been his ambition.
There was a vast line of guests, and the general’s attention quickly turned to the woman behind Jake, whose breasts were bulging from the top of her stomacher. Just in time, too, for Carleton had entered the hall and was bearing down quickly on the general.
Jake’s disguise now included a gold-embroidered eye patch as well as his strategically placed face plasters, along with a bit of rouge and some deft work on his eyebrows. Still, he could not trust any amount of makeup or patches to keep him safe from Carleton. He slipped quietly into the background. Leaving Marie to the greasy grasp of Captain Clark, he worked his way through the crowd, gathering female admirers as a protective screen.
The entire building was filled with talk about the coming offensive. Burgoyne told everyone – literally everyone – that the whole thing had been his idea, how he’d written a book to impress the king with the grand plan to separate the rebellious colonies, etc., etc. The book, a few wags commented in the hallway, was nothing more than a hastily printed and error-strewn pamphlet, but with similar allowances for exaggeration, Jake had no trouble putting together the outlines of the campaign. Burgoyne would start out from Crown Point and take
Ticonderoga, and then with the aid of a second prong sent through the Mohawk Valley, fall on Albany. He had thousands of men mustering to sail down Lake Champlain, and it seemed obvious from various hints that he would proceed along the east side of Lake George. Two things were critical to his grand design – a populace that would return to the British as the Canadians had, and an assault force up the Hudson by Howe from New York City.
The northern drive would not only pacify the towns and villages along the river, but would threaten to surround the rebel’s army of the Northern Department. Schuyler would find himself between Burgoyne’s hammer and the anvil of General Howe in New York. Washington would either retreat to New Jersey as Howe advanced – Burgoyne apparently through the American general was too cowardly to attack – or be crushed. Either way, the rebel army in the north would evaporate and the middle colonies would be secured.
Jake’s own knowledge of the terrain from Ticonderoga south, vague as it was, supplied a second reason Burgoyne would attempt to get as far south as Albany as quickly as possible. Any large force would have trouble being supplied from Canada; its lines of communication would stretch thin and be an easy target for irregulars. By contrast, the river could move tons of food and supplies. Winter, too, would be easier in Albany than on the lakes.
Any man or woman in the hall could have told you the general’s plan within a half hour of arriving. A woman with a stomach strong enough to stand the general’s incessant preening – and breasts large enough to hold the general’s attention – could even say which army units were heading south with him, inept subalterns or no.
But no one could say when the attack was due to be launched. Such information was now Jake’s greatest desire, and it induced him to continue wandering through the party, chatting with everyone he met, always ready to gracefully retreat at the slightest sign of the governor. Fortunately for Jake, Carleton did not like Burgoyne, and kept his distance from the general. The spy could always escape his attention by heading toward Gentleman Johnny.
“There you are,” said Marie, finding him as he prowled a corner of an elegantly appointed sitting room just off the ballroom. “What are you doing?”
“Admiring the drapes.”
“She’s cuckolded her husband twice in three years,” hissed Marie, nodding at the neighbor who stood before the red velvet fabric.
“Is that a recommendation, cousin?”
Marie frowned heavily.
“Do you know when the invasion is to begin?” Jake whispered.
She shook her head. It seemed to be the one secret Burgoyne was intent on keeping.
There was a cry of violins from inside; the entertainment was about to begin.
“So would you like to dance?” Jake asked Marie.
“Must you tempt fate?”
“Oh, come on,” he said, adding, as if he missed her point, “My leg is perfectly healed.”
Marie sighed and took his arm, letting him lead her to the dance floor, where they took up a place in the line of dancers. The first dance was a minuet, begun with its requisite bows and curtsies to the guests of honor. As Carelton’s attention was drawn by a consultation with one of his aides at the other end of the room, Jake put himself quite into the dance. He kissed his hand with great flair as he offered it to Marie, bending his knee slightly and then stepping forward on his toes, forward and lower, moving to the left, facing his partner, flourishing, taking hands and whirling around, working through a set of four and ending back with his cousin.
The American hadn’t danced in several years, and leading through the ring of dancers, he realized he was starting to get just a tiny bit heady. That was quickly cured – Jake saw from the corner of his uncovered eye that Governor Carleton was heading down the row toward him.
But the dancer was caught by the beat of the music. Their turn had come to play second couple, and Jake and Marie stood idly, waiting as the first pair took up with the fourth.
Well, Jake thought to himself as the governor approached, this shall certainly make an interesting story for the crier to shout in the morning – notorious spy caught out of turn at the ball on the eve of the invasion.
-C
hapter Ten–
Wherein, Jake makes certain discoveries of extreme interest to the Cause, and the British make discoveries of their own.
Governor Carleton was no more than ten feet away when Jake realized Marie was clearing her throat quite loudly. Did she expect him to run?
No, she expected him to step forward and take the hand of the lady across from him – they were, after all, dancing.
He bowed with perfect timing, if just a bit of unnatural flourish, as Carleton passed behind him in a fury. The governor was so focused on his business that he saw no one else in the room, not the American agent or even the aide scrambling behind him. And now Gentleman Johnny was excusing himself and coming in the same direction.
Curiosity is an extreme motivator for a man in the spying profession, where naturally the mind tweaks itself toward inquiry. True, such a trait has its drawbacks, but for an agent on special services it is the engine of innumerable achievements. So it should not be surprising that Jake, having escaped discovery by the narrowest of margins, instantly decided to double the odds by following the two British officials and seeing what they might be up to. He bowed to his dancing partners, all seven of them, and excused himself, holding his hand to his stomach as if overcome by a sudden ailment. Then he made for the door as if he had taken a double dose of cathartic.
His quick exit brought him nose-to-back with General Burgoyne, who had stopped to confer with some aides near the door. Jake slipped off to the side as the general first gently criticized the men for interrupting, and then said, reluctantly, that he would go up with the governor and see what this new message was about.
The stairs were unguarded. Jake waited for the general and his minions to ascend and go down the hallway. He was after them in a flash, taking three steps at a time, checking for his pocket pistol as he climbed. Snug in his waistband, it was primed and ready; he had only to flick the safety and fire.
It was purely a weapon of last resort, since using it would draw immediate attention to himself. His weapon of first resort consisted of all his senses – hearing in particular, which led him down the hall to the secretary’s room, just outside the governor’s office. The interior chamber was closed, but even the thick door could not muffle Carleton’s loud voice as he upbraided Burgoyne.
Not upbraided, exactly; more like complained against the general’s libels and the willingness of Lord Germain to hear them.
“My resignation is on its way to that coward Germain as we speak,” said Carleton.
“Intemperate words,” said Gentleman Johnny. “Lord Germain enjoys the full confidence of the king.”
“He has not changed his stripe.”
The argument continued, but Jake’s eavesdropping did not – someone was approaching down a hallway. Jake looked quickly for a hiding place, but found nothing more suitable than the underside of a large desk as an officer and a man dressed in civilian clothes entered.
“Wait, while I get the governor,” the officer told the man, going in the meantime to the window and pulling the drapes closed. The window was right next to the desk – Jake was close enough to smell the grease polish on the officer’s boots.
“My orders are to give the letter to the general, not the governor.”
“The governor is still in charge,” said the officer testily. “He is waiting with the general.” He turned sharply on his heel and knocked on the adjacent office door before entering.”
Jake flattened himself beneath the desk while the messenger paced a few feet away. A canteen hung from a leather sling at his side: undoubtedly that contained whatever he’d come to deliver. But even as Jake considered the wild thought of snatching it and dashing for the patriot lines, the door to the office was reopened and the man summoned inside.
Jake got up and snuck next to the chamber to hear what was going on. Burgoyne apparently took the fact that the message was to be delivered to him personally as a veiled insult to his choice of staff officers. Carleton, for his part, was annoyed that Burgoyne and not he was the recipient. The general ripped open the letter and read it aloud, both as a feigned courtesy to Carleton and a dramatic display of trust in his subordinates.
Burgoyne’s voice betrayed some regret as he proceeded. How had made it clear that he had no use for his plans to invade New York, and indicated that he would not bother to support the action with his troops.
Jake had little time to consider the strategic import of this happy news – Burgoyne exploded in fury and led the whole mess of them, governor, messenger, and assorted hangers-on, into the secretary’s room, in search of something to write on. Jake nearly lost his eye patch to a splinter in the floorboard as he dove back beneath the desk.
“You will deliver my message to Howe himself,” Burgoyne declared as he entered.
“Begging your pardon, General, but that is explicitly against protocol. We have an elaborate procedure. I’ve never met Sir William; I have a staff officers I deal with, who in turn deals with another officers.”
“If I’m good enough to be met personally, Howe is no better,” said Burgoyne. He reached over the top of the desk, hovering less than eighteen inches from Jake, and quickly wrote a note. “He’s to carry on with the offensive the way I mapped it out. The orders from England are quite explicit, even if they are worded to avoid offending his delicate sensibilities.”
Sir, again I must protest. For matters of security, I should not know what the message contains. This way, I can dispose of it, and honestly answer –“
“What is your name and rank?”
“Captain William Herstraw, sir.”
“Are you always in the habit of telling your superiors their business?”
“No, sir.”
While Burgoyne was defending his bruised ego, the other officers were shifting nervously around the room. Jakes ribs did their own shifting, trying to stifle the outraged squeaks his lungs were emitting in protest of being contorted to fit his chest beneath the desk well.
Burgoyne finished his message and straightened. Jake, sensing the session would end soon and he could escape, began to feel relief – until the general sat on the edge of the desk. The wood groaned with the weight and pressed down into the spy’s back. “Now I will tell you a bit of your business,” the general said to the messenger. “Any simpleton, even a rebel, will search your canteen for a message. You need something a bit more secretive, and easily disposed.”
“I don’t intend on being searched,” replied Haverstraw. “I travel among the rebels as a poor yeoman farmer and am never suspected.”
“Our own messengers use silver bullets,” said Carleton, with a note in his voice that meant he wanted this whole business concluded. “Captain Clark, can you prepare one for Captain Haverstraw?”
Clark – the same Clark you’re thing of, if you’re thinking he’s Marie’s – didn’t answer. Instead he walked towards the desk.
The same desk you’re thinking of, if you’re thinking of Jake’s. Jake pressed in deeper and tried to conjure some excuse, lame as it might be, as Clark approached.
Fortunately, Clark did not come around to the back of the desk, where he might have had occasion to glance down and see an unaccounted-for leg. Instead he reached over the side and pulled the drawer open – and in the process whacked Jake on the side of his skull.
Which would not have been so bad, had Jake’s wig not gone flying with the friction of the drawer.
A popular manufacturer in France once sewed small strings on his wigs. These were meant to be tied to the collar or the back of the neck, so the wig could easily be retrieved if knocked loose by the wind or some other force of nature. Surely such a device would have been a godsend for Jake at that moment. The wig was lying on the floor, positively due for discovery once the drawer was closed.
Jake strained his fingers from their sockets, grabbing at the ribbon that tied the ponytail. Meanwhile, Clark rummaged through the shallow drawer, looking for a sharp knife to open the silver ball with. He leaned harder and
harder on the desk, pressing Jake’s side.
“We use them to communicate with Sir Johnson and his Indians,” Clark said. “I only need a thin blade.”
Jake felt like volunteering his own pocketknife. Clark shook the drawer and tried opening it farther – scraping against Jake’s skull.
“Damn drawer is always sticking. I have a penknife in here somewhere.”
By some compression of the spine that would no doubt strike an anatomist as impossible, Jake managed to duck his head down as Clark struggled with the drawer. The same motion, fortunately, gave him a better grip on the wig’s ribbon.
Which pulled look from the hair as soon as he exerted pressure.
“Will my knife do?” volunteered on of Burgoyne’s men.
“Yes, I think so,” said Clark, slamming the drawer shut across the top of Jake’s head.
Jake managed to whisk the wig up as the drawer closed. But what really saved him was the party’s immediate retreat back inside the chamber. Head creased but otherwise intact, Jake extricated himself and breathed as deeply as a horse, ungluing his lungs from his kidneys. Then he crept across the room, resuming his post at the door.
“I like the idea of a silver bullet,” he heard Burgoyne say inside. “It has panache.”
“Carleton proceeded to quiz the messenger on the situation at Ticonderoga and Albany. The man claimed there were ten thousand American troops at Ticonderoga and perhaps four or five thousand more at Albany.
Both numbers were wild exaggerations. There weren’t ten thousand American soldiers in all of New York. In fact, Schuyler would be lucky to muster 3,500 at Ticonderoga, including militia.
That’s what the British got for spying, though.