by Jim DeFelice
“I’ll have nine thousand men marching with me June seventeenth,” Burgoyne boasted as the governor started to argue that perhaps his attack should be rethought in light of the rebel’s strength. “We’ll pick up many more on the way, once the colonists hear my proclamation. I’m not worried about the numbers, not at all.”
Jake silently congratulated Burgoyne for having given him everything he’d come north for. He fixed his wig atop his head, repositioned the eye patch and prepared to take his leave.
“We will have no problem as long as Howe follows orders,” Burgoyne said. “The message is critical. The entire success of the campaign depends on it. Well, the entire success of the campaign depends on me.” The general permitted himself a polite laugh, apparently expecting the others to join him. They did not.
“Take the bullet and go,” he told the messenger. “Leave directly.”
“I’d hoped for some sleep, sir. My horse is tired after the long journey.”
“Get him a new horse,” commanded Burgoyne with a snap of his fingers. “Every hour is critical. How must come north with his troops the moment I set off. Let’s go, man; this is a war, you know, not a summer party.”
The impatience of generals knows no national borders.
“Sir, I have rode without stopping from the Bull’s Head Inn near Fort Hubbardton.”
“What is that, the Bull’s Head? A frontier dance hall? Do they dress up their cattle and parade them on stage?” Burgoyne drew titters from his aides.
“It is a tavern, sir,” said Herstraw tightly, trying to preserve some of his dignity. “Fortunately, the owner is secretly loyal to the king. He is a distant relative of mine.”
“We will remember him when we liberate the area,” said Burgoyne. “Go on, march off. Go on, march off. You must be in New York City before the week is out.”
“Sir, traveling two quickly through enemy lines attracts too much attention. It is better to seem nonchalant. And this –“
“Leave this instant, or I will court-martial you for insubordination!”
Jake had just enough time to step back into a shadow – there was no way he was going near that desk again – when the door opened and the messenger emerged.
He was not a happy man. Dressed plainly, in a nondescript brown coat and white britches, Herstraw walked briskly through the room and stormed into the hall. Jake caught his profile as he passed – a large nose was his most distinguishing feature.
The door to the chamber closed as the general and governor renewed their discussions. Jake added one more aspect to his disguise – the slightly piqued manner of a secretary called from the dance floor to do his duty – and proceeded to the stairwell.
“I believe the general wants to see you,” he told the soldiers who’d just taken up stations there. They obediently went off to see their master, having no reason to question a man who had obviously just come from inside.
Jake paused briefly in front of a mirror at the head of the stairs to readjust his eye patch – and watch Herstraw reach the landing. He planned on making his acquaintance very shortly – he’d tackle him outside, kill him and destroy his message. Just let the Briton get a few yards ahead so he wouldn’t suspect he was being followed, and it would be easier than any of the dancing he’d just done.
Meanwhile, Carleton was unsuccessful in convincing Burgoyne that he had overestimated the local Loyalist sympathies and underestimated the patriots. Whatever its ultimate effect on the American Cause, the failure of his argument had immediate consequences for Jake. Burgoyne stomped from the office with the governor at his heels, both men silent, though no doubt cursing each other with great vigor inside their heads. Carelton happened to look toward the stairs, which Jake was just starting to descend.
Despite the dim light, despite the disguise, despite his preoccupations, despite fortune, luck, and Providence, Carleton recognized Jake immediately.
“Stop that man!” he yelled as loudly and indignantly as any royal governor had yelled these past three years of rebellion. “Stop him!”
Stop him! The very phrase has a certain epic ring to it, a certain correctness: one wants to be the subject of it. Great forces are set in motion with these simple words. Other cries are taken up, alarms spread. Hearts beat double and triple time. All hell breaks loose. Just the sort of thing to make your night.
Especially if you’re a spy and the halter waits as a reward for your capture. Jake leapt to the bottom of the stairs and rushed down the hallway to the ballroom. Along the way, he doffed his eye patch, most of the plasters, and his wig, in effect taking up a new disguise undisguised. Once at the entryway to the ballroom, he dodged through as politely as possible, smiling to the right, apologizing to the left, spinning and sliding as if he were being followed by no one more troubling than a dancer whose toe he had stepped on.
“Stop that man!” Carleton shouted again as he reached the ballroom.”
“I’ll get him Governor!” answered Jake, leaping toward the back door.
He was three steps from the doorway when he saw the soldiers who’d been posted outside coming through, bayonet points first. Jake veered to the right, looking for a suitable detour.
There were no more doors, but there were plenty of windows. Grabbing a small chair from the side of the room, Jake threw it before him, knocking the small panes of the large window in a great crash. He then hurled himself through, covering his face with his arms and rolling to the pavement, quite possibly breaking half his bones in the process.
He had no time for an inventory. Carleton had not given up his blasted shouting, and the alarm was spreading to the street and nearby environs. Jake stumbled forward to his feet, hoping for some sort of momentum to take him across the Parade Square to the Water Gate.
That would not have been a wise way to go, being that there were even more soldiers at that particular spot than any other in the city. As so often happens in such cases, however, Fortune provided for our hero, causing at that moment a large gray steed to rush across in front of him, right to left. Jake, never one to question the whims of a lady, leapt immediately to the horses back.
Fortune is not without her little jokes, however. In this case, while providing Jake with the means of escaping his pursuer, she gave him two other difficulties to contend with. Number one – the horse was being ridden by a major of the British cavalry, who objected strenuously to an unpaid passenger. Number two – the horse was heading in the direction of the boatyard, where a troop of soldiers were encamped.
The British major was undoubtedly brave and strong, but Jake had the superior motivation – he garroted the fellow with a hastily rolled handkerchief and pulled strongly to one side: when the major resisted, Jake used his weight and a kick in the horse’s flank to change their momentum. The major went tumbling overboard.
The second problem took longer to solve, partly because Jake, his head still swirling from his plunge through the window to the pavement, did not realize which way he was going. It was only when he saw several shadows looming in the dark, answering the general alarm, that he realized his mistake.
What does one say to an armed host when one’s suddenly sprung into their midst, and people running down the road are shouting various variations of “Stop that man!”?
“Who’s in charge here? Sound the alarm! Hurry, a spy has escaped!”
And so Jake quickly rallied his pursuit, mustering the men and sending them down the quay back towards the governor’s palace, ready to shoot anything that looked vaguely Americans.
He, meanwhile, sought out something to get onto the St. Lawrence with. A small birch canoe presented itself at the end of the wharf; Jake dove from the horse into the craft, pushing off into the water in the same motion.
It would have been more convenient if the boat had paddles. Nonetheless, he was able to make decent progress by leaning over the sides and rowing with his arms; by the time they felt as if they would positively drop off, he was clear across the channel, and the c
onfused search on the shore was just an inconvenient buzz in the background.
-Chapter Eleven-
Wherein, an assignment is made which will have desperate consequences for our story.
The commotion caused by Lieutenant Colonel Jakes Gibb’s sudden appearance in Montreal took several hours to die down. The ball was disrupted and the entire city put on alert; the wharves were sealed off and patrols were sent in all directions around the island without waiting for the morning to dawn.
In the meantime, Marie escaped quietly to her friend’s apartment. Her fellow French Canadians held her in high enough esteem that the British could not move against her without raising the ire of the populace; as long as she protested ignorance and kept to herself for a month or two, she knew she would escape with no more serious damage than the loss of her beau, Captain Clark. She was angry with Jake for having exposed her, yet at the same time worried greatly about his fate.
General Burgoyne, in his offhanded and pompous way, dismissed the rebel as inconsequential. “A mere spy will not have any effect on my plans,” said Gentleman Johnny, whose reputation as an overconfident horse’s body part had proven years before to everyone’s satisfaction except Lord North’s, who as head of His Majesty’s government had the only opinion that counted. “I have half a mind to write a letter to Washington himself, detailing my plans,” Burgoyne told Carleton when the first patrols reported that they could not find Jake. “Let these backwoodsmen try and stop me; I intend on dining in Schuyler’s mansion in Albany before Christmas.”
Some portion of the general’s bluster was undoubtedly for show, however, as he gave orders for the invasion force to accelerate its preparations. He spent the rest of the night dictating commands for his troops, determined to launch the first phase of his attack with the week. If he had never counted on strategic surprise in the first place, still he pushed his men to seize the tactical initiative, before the American army could fully mobilize against him.
Governor Carleton did not even pretend to take Jake Gibbs lightly. In fact, the governor could be forgiven if he interpreted Gibb’s reappearance in Canada as little less than a personal affront. The anger he felt could not be placed adequately into words. Nor was it satisfied by the prolonged pounding he treated his desktop to.
And so the meeting that took place in the governor’s chambers around three a.m. should come as no surprise. Carleton sat at his desk, grim; the lateness of the hour wore deeply on his face, fatigue having ingrained lines on his cheeks and brows. Ordinarily a calm and even mild man, Carleton was quite beside himself with rage. His lone visitor stood a few feet away, waiting for his orders as the governor did his best to bring his emotions back under control so he could speak. Finally, he found his voice.
“I have sent nearly a hundred men, and Burgoyne, despite his bluster, has his own troops on alert. But he is a wily man, this Gibbs. Half the army could look for him, and he would find a way to sneak through their ranks.”
The man across the room from the governor nodded. Carleton frowned, then continued, his tone still strained.
He stole my wig, you know. He had the audacity to take my wig and escape after he’d given his word as a British gentleman not to leave house arrest. But of course, he no longer considers himself a British gentleman. My favorite wig – I’d bought it from Gladders in London.
Though he knew well where Gladders was and even felt some sympathy for the governor – the affront to his honor by a man he’d treated as his son made the governor look foolish – Carleton’s visitor did not speak. He merely shifted his legs slightly as his large blue eyes calmly searched his commander. These eyes were twice the size normally apportioned for such a face, as set deep into the skull, so that he had the appearance of a wild owl, recording everything, scanning for his prey.
Major Christopher Manly had performed many tasks for the governor over the past six months, though none had begun with an interview such as this. He was confident, however, that the end result would be entirely the same.
Manly had a truck full of talents, but his physical appearance belied his skills and strength. He was well over six and a half feet tall, standing a good head and shoulders above most every other man in the army. His body weight was not similarly portioned: his arms and legs were as thin as the branches on a year-old birch tree, and a girl would blush to have a waist as thin as his. His height made him appear awkward when he walked or ran, though his long strides actually made him fleet and he’d learned to use the leverage inherent in his limbs to great advantage in a fight. He was another breed of man on a horse; so light and yet so sinewy and pliant that he seemed to blend with the animal; the pair became a different being altogether.
But as far as the British army was concerned, Major Manley’s most attractive trait was his willingness to do whatever his commander asked – no, not asked, but hinted. For the major was a member of His Majesty’s Secret Department, an agent of the shadowy brigade assigned specifically to Governor Carleton to carry out whatever tasks were too delicate for other branches to handle. If he appeared awkward at rest – even standing erect he was an unlikely collection of limbs put together by a sculptor in jest – he was a fluid and efficient as a Caribbean hurricane once set in motion, and twice as deadly.
“Burgoyne may be right about the rebels,” continued Carleton after a new round of pounding on the desk finally drained his anger. “They are quite sharp when they face old men as they did taking Ticonderoga, but put a real army together and they fall back, as they did last fall. Still, he is a fool for overestimating his own abilities and the loyalty of these people. The Canadians – I’m boring you Major, am I not?”
“You never bore me, Governor.”
Carleton smiled. He had that rare ability in a British commander to know flattery when he heard it – and to turn away from it.
“Jake Gibbs is a deadly fellow. He helped stir up the populace against me while he worked at my right hand, and he scouted the Canadian defenses most effectively.”
“If his work at Quebec is any indication,” said Manley dryly, “I should think you’d be happy to have him spying about.”
“The Americans attacked out of desperation,” answered Carleton, aware that his great victory two years before was due partly to luck. “No, Gibbs is quite something. I’d heard rumors that he was killed; obviously they were wishful thinking.” Carleton rose from his desk and began pacing through the room. “He could have assassinated me tonight.”
“I doubt that, sir.”
“No, it’s true. He could have. Burgoyne as well. He’s quite capable of such treachery. All of these Americans are. Show them kindness, and this is how they repay you.”
Manley nodded, understanding what was meant perfectly. For in such a way are orders for gruesome assassinations given, veiled with words of what others might have done. It would be against the nature of things to kill a gentleman, but a treacherous snake who did not observe the proprieties of life – such a fellow was not a gentleman, and might be disposed of without prejudice.
“I have no doubt he will escape the patrols,” said Carlton. “He did so in Quebec, and that was in broad daylight. They will not be mounted long in any event, and will not follow with the discipline necessary even if they are lucky enough to catch a whiff of his trail.”
“I would think a man like that would have to be followed wherever he went.”
Carleton nodded. The reader will wonder at the delicacy of the British commanders, so careful to skirt the truth of what they were saying. But officially the Secret Department did not even exist, and it was imperative that certain forms be kept – for otherwise, how was a true British gentleman like Governor Carleton to sleep at night?
“You know this fellow Herstraw, the messenger from New York?” Carleton asked.
“No, sir.”
There was the slightest bit of disdain in Manley’s voice. Messengers were ordinarily not part of the department’s ranks, and even those who ventured far through
enemy lines such as Herstraw were looked down upon as mere errand boys, no matter how difficult their jobs might be.
“He seemed competent enough,” Carleton said. “To have come all this way from New York – it could not have been an easy journey.”
“It is a long journey,” allowed Manley.
The governor smiled at the grudging admission. “I assume that he will return to General How. Gibbs undoubtedly overheard us talking and will be on his trail. I would not want him overtaken.”
Manley nodded.
“If you have occasion to find Herstraw before Gibbs, you will see that he carries a coded coin as an identifier,” said the governor. “Captain Clark is familiar with the path he will take; knowing it should allow you to track our Mr. Gibbs more easily. The hunter becoming the prey, as it were.”
Manley nodded.
Carleton returned to his desk, standing over it for a moment. It is only fair to admit that he felt the slightest hesitation before sealing his order for Jake’s death. Lurking in his soul was the shadow of the initial affection that had attracted him toward the able young man years before in London, the emotion of father toward son. If circumstances had been different, he would have proved an affectionate and powerful mentor.
But the governor had not achieved his position in life without mastering his emotions. He reached inside his waistband and produced the key to the bottom desk drawer. Without further ceremony he unlocked it, removing a long, narrow silver box. As second key was retrieved from his watch pocket, and the box was opened to reveal a dagger as slender in proportions as Manley’s body. The tempered blade shone even in the study’s dim light, and as the governor reached across to hand it to his minion, the red jewel at the end of the hilt glowed like a flame stolen from the fires of hell. And so was a mission of the Secret Department commissioned, the knife an identifier to any officer of sufficient rank and position to realize such a thing as the department existed. The blade was not, as some writers have suggested, a mark that assassination had been ordered – but then, the mistake is understandable, since so many of their missions had that as their only goal.