The Silver Bullet (17 page)

More important than his physical disposition, the messenger kept a pair of pistols at the front of his saddle. No doubt loaded and half cocked, they ruled out direct confrontation, at least for the moment. Jake realized too that he could not count on his fellow travelers for assistance. Save van Clynne, he had no idea who any of them were or what their allegiance might be. And even van Clynne had proved that he was not above helping a Tory for the right price.

Nonetheless, Jake was confident an opportunity to overcome Herstraw would soon present itself, and said nothing as the party proceeded. Several hours passed before they took a fork in the road with a sign for Pittsford, and Jake once more became conscious of his need to return quickly to Schuyler with the invasion plans. But his concerns were quieted by the appearance of a small boy flying the wooden sign of a bull’s head – the inn Herstraw had bragged of to Burgoyne.

“
The wife knows her ale here,” van Clynne confided. “You will see. Her husband’s an old countryman from England, but she was taught by a German.”

“
Old countryman” was a way of saying that the man was an immigrant, far more likely than native-born to side with the tyrant. That and his distant relationship with Herstraw, as the messenger had mentioned in Canada, were more than enough to explain his allegiance – and put Jake on his guard.

Jake slipped his hand to his belt before getting off his horse. The elk-handled blade Leal had given him was ready – all he needed was an opportunity to slip up behind the man and escape.

But escape must be guaranteed. No one else knew the information he’d traveled from Montreal with.

Perhaps, as insurance, he should tell someone else.

“
Are you going to stand there in the middle of the path all afternoon?” asked van Clynne, shaking the dust from his coat.

“
Claus, let me ask you something. You’re a patriot, are you not?”

“
Just because I have not raised a fuss as you rode my horse, do not think that I am your friend.”

“
But you have often done things for the American cause. And you know General Schuyler. He’s a Dutchman.”

“
What are you getting at?”

“
Where did you get such a carriage?” said Jake loudly, giving up his try at recruiting van Clynne when he realized Herstraw was walking directly toward them.

“
You have much to learn about the art of conversation,” said van Clynne. “You can’t flit from one topic to another and expect coherence.”

“
It is a fine carriage.”

“
I have a buyer for it in Rhinebeck, who has always told me to keep an eye out. Unless you’d like to meet his prices. It would be just the thing to top off your hunting dress.”

“
I think not,” said Jake as Herstraw passed into the building. “Tell me, do you know who that man is?”

The Dutchman shrugged. “These are all farmers burned out by Indians,” he said. “There has been some trouble north, and they have relatives farther south.”

“
They’re all patriots like you, then?”

“
I gave you fair warning, sir. Do not press your luck. Here boy, let me see to that,” said the Dutchman, walking off after his carriage.

The ale was as good as van Clynne had predicted. Perhaps some of the taste came from the heritage of the tankard it was delivered in. The wooden vessel consisted of staves held together at the bottom by a copper ring. The tope was tied with a flat reed, and the handle had an animal’s head carved on it, though the cup was so old and worn it was impossible to tell what sort of animal was intended.

To Jake it didn’t matter; his attention was focused entirely on Herstraw, seated across the room. The messenger had taken the precaution of hauling his holsters in with his saddlebag, as if overly fastidious about his possessions. A gun was not more than eight inches from his fingers at any moment while he ate.

When the keeper asked if he would have some lunch, Jake nodded absentmindedly. He soon realized he was shoveling food into his mouth with abandon, hardly aware of the birch trencher plate it came on. The stew, made of venison, corn and carrots, was a sizable feast for one who’d had so little to eat over the past few days.

Jake sopped up the stew’s juices with a large crust of yeast bread, the first soft load he’d had in more than a week. The bread and his pocketknife were his only utensils, but he cleared the old-fashioned plate within a few minutes and asked for seconds.

Van Clynne’s description of the party seemed accurate, in the main. This was to be but a short diversion before they came back to the highway south, proceeding through Fort Edward south to Rhinebeck, which lay roughly parallel to Kingston on the other side of the river. Several of these people had relatives there. Their politics were not paraded, but they seemed at least sympathetic to the American cause, as would be expected from their destination. And they did not act as if they knew Herstraw as more than a fellow met on the road.

Could he count on them to help with an arrest? Van Clynne didn’t trust him, Jake knew, and they would probably take their cue from him.

The American agent left his second plate of stew half finished as he contemplated a desperate plan – stay close to Herstraw as he left the inn, then knife him from behind outside. Jump on a waiting horse and ride straight for the fort.

But that would be pushing his luck recklessly. They were now within the American lines and near several forts besides: it would be only a few miles before some militia group or army patrol would cross their path. He could then unmask himself, arrest Herstraw, and command escort to Schuyler. It would not cause much of a delay to wait until them.

Jake, constitutionally opposed to delay but seeing little other choice, worked his way around the room to a chair across from Herstraw to size up his quarry. In the meantime, another member of the party pulled over his own seat and began talking to the disguised British messenger.

Apparently Herstraw had lost his horse somewhere north, most likely by riding it too hard through the night. The animal he was on now belonged to the farmer. The man negotiated a deal – the farmer wouldn’t sell this mare, but promised he could buy a suitable substitute from his brother in Rhinebeck. In the meantime, he was welcome to ride the one he’d been on – provided he paid the six shillings they’d agreed on. Herstraw counted out two shillings in advance to seal the arrangement.

The deal concluded, Jake leaned forward.

“
Are you related to my good friend, George Herstraw?” he asked. “He owns land south of Bennington.”

“
I think not,” said the man. “I come from the Herstraws near White Plains.”

“
Is that where you’re going?”

Herstraw nodded reluctantly. “How did you know my name?”

“
I overheard you talking before,” lied Jake. “And I though you looked a bit familiar.”

The pair engaged in a short conversation, Jake explaining that he, too, was on his way south to see relatives. The exchange of falsehoods complete, the American looked up to see his friend van Clynne entering the inn. No doubt he’d been detained by some business deal, Jake suggested to Herstraw.

“
The man would see his mother’s dishes if there were profit in it,” he added.

“
I wouldn’t know.”

“
You’re not familiar with Squire van Clynne?”

“
I am a stranger here.”

One of the farmers stood up and announced it was time to reform the convoy. The group rose and began filing toward the door, where the innkeeper stood with his palm upturned and his thick arm out, collecting payment for lunch and beer.

It was only then that Jake remembered he’d given up the last of his money. His repast was only an English shilling or the equivalent – a fair and inexpensive price, surely – but he was as likely to find a coin in his money belt as he was to find the treasure of Captain Kidd.

Herstraw chose not to hear Jake’s request for aid, and so Jake turned to the only other man here he knew.

“
Squire van Clynne,” he said solicitously. “Good sir, lend me the price of dinner and I will repay you in Albany.”

“
Albany, what place is that?”

“
Fort Orange,” said Jake, remembering van Clynne’s habit of calling everything by its old Dutch name.

“
We’re not going to Fort Orange,” answered van Clynne. “It’s on the opposite shore.”

“
I’m good for the shilling,” said Jake. “Surely you know that.”

“
It seems to me that I do not know that,” said van Clynne. “You had money in your possession before, and now have squandered it. Does that make you a good risk? I think not.”

“
Claus.”

“
What would I have for collateral?”

“
Collateral? For a shilling?”

“
Collateral, sir. I never consider a loan without first considering the collateral.”

Jake dug through his pockets. “My pocketknife,” he said. “It’s a Barlow, and worth a pound or two at least.”

“
Hardly,” said van Clynne, not even bothering to look it over. “Do you have a watch?”

“
No,” said Jake. “Here, take the knife.”

“
I’ll set my own terms, if you please,” said van Clynne. “Let me see your hunting knife.”

“
That’s not for sale at any price,” said Jake. “I’ve borrowed it from someone, and expect to return it.”

“
And you won’t return my shilling, eh?”

“
I am good for a shilling, damn it. This knife is worth considerably more.”

“
Give me your money belt?”

“
My money belt?”

“
If you purse is empty, you’ve no need for it, have you?”

It was difficult to argue with such logic, especially as he feared Herstraw might decide to get a head start on the company and bolt down the road. Jake pulled the belt off and held it up before van Clynne – who would have a difficult time getting it around his thigh, let alone his belly.

“
Thank you very much, sir.” Van Clynne grabbed the belt and flipped the innkeeper a shilling.

Jake hurried out the door into the sunlight – and the outstretched arms of several members of the local militia.

“
Jake Gibbs, I arrest you on charges of spying for His Majesty the King.”

There was a note of reverence in the soldier’s voice when he mentioned George III. Jake did not have time to point out how unseemly that was coming from a patriot, however, for a chain was immediately flung around his shoulders and he was tugged to the ground. His protest was cut off by a thick fist that slammed into the side of his head and knocked him unconscious.

C
onvinced that the
information Jake had given him about the band of Mohawks and British loyalists held the key to his wife’s whereabouts, the woodsman Leal le Couguar set out to find them.

The immense difficulties involved in traversing the wild country between Lake Champlain and the upper Mohawk Valley, not to mention the problem of confronting the group single-handedly, did not trouble him. If anything, he felt a welling confidence – the kidnappers had traveled far to elude him, but the gods had brought him a messenger to point him in their direction. For Leal interpreted Jake’s sudden appearance on the road as nothing less than divine intervention, and trusted now that his mission would end with success.

When he reached the shore, he took stock of his gear and found Jake’s discarded suit jacket. Leal had never seen such fine material sewed into a coat, and wondered why his friend had left it.

Perhaps if Jake had explained himself fully, perhaps if duty had not prevented him from telling Leal the full nature of his mission, the trapper’s logic might have taken a different turn. For though Leal was superstitious, still he was a generally practical man and did not ordinarily interpret everything he saw or heard as a supernatural sign. But as he pondered his friend’s strength and apparent wisdom, the ease with which they had talked together and the bond that had so quickly developed between them, the temptation to conclude that Jake was a personal embodiment of spirits Leal had heard about since childhood grew stronger and stronger. Blame isolation and loneliness as much as superstition; in any event, Leal pulled on Jake’s coat, content to wear it as a token of good luck and friendship – and maybe an invocation of supernatural powers.

If there were unworldly powers at work, they were not beneficent. For Leal’s arrival on shore and his contemplation of the jacket was observed by Major Christopher Manley, the agent of the Secret Department assigned to assassinate Jake.

Manley had spent the past two days following Jake’s trail. Though it had grown cold on the west shore of the lake, the agent had no doubt he would come across the American if he persevered.

Many miles north, the limp body of an old farmer lay near an empty cart, attesting to the major’s brutal manners. Before his neck had been snapped, the Frenchman had told Manley to be on the lookout for a half-breed trapper. The jacket Leal slipped on told him he had found the right man.