The Silver Bullet Page 6

  It was just such a sound thirty yards to his right that caught his attention. When he heard the second step he leaped off his horse and sped silently through the woods, gun in hand.

  Van Clynne jabbered on, not even aware Jake had dismounted. His first notice of the ambush came with the loud crash and muffled moan the intruder emitted as Jake caught the man from behind, cupping his hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming out.

  Pardon – her mouth. There was no mistaking that once he touched the smoothness of her face, Jake, seeing she was unarmed, turned her gently toward him with his left hand, which held the pistol. He was mildly surprised and somewhat pleased to see defiance, not fear, in her eyes.

  When he let go, reaching down to pick up her fallen basket of early blueberries, she leveled a blow at his head.

  He ducked and upended the girl, grabbing her around the middle.

  “Let me down!” she screamed, kicking and punching. “My father will shoot you if you hurt me.”

  “I meant no harm,” said Jake, setting her down gingerly – her muscles were nearly as strong as her spirit. “I thought you were coming to attack us.”

  “Who are you, riding through the woods at night?” she demanded. “Another soldier from the fort, or some damned Tory?”

  “Johanna! Johanna Blom!” shouted van Clynne, arriving late to the commotion. He explained in very excited Dutch that Jake was a friend and meant no harm.

  Jake’s passing knowledge of the language allowed him to add that, had he known their assailant was this pretty, he surely would have surrendered without a fight. The remark prompted Mistress Johanna to attempt another punch, though its intended victim noted that this one was grabbed more easily than the others.

  Apologies offered if not wholly accepted, Jake and van Clynne were escorted to the Blom house. Fifty years before, the two-story clapboard affair – as van Clynne explained in his flourishing style – had been an estimable stopping point for travelers. New roads, more dependable boats along the lake, and the failure of the local beaver population had conspired to cause its decline. Blom still let rooms from time to time, and his taproom remained popular with the male population of the small hamlet up the road a quarter of a mile, especially those seeking to avoid their wives.

  Jake and his guide were soon sitting in front of the hearth, the fire stoked against the late spring chill, a mug of nut-brown porter in hand. The fire glowed and reflected off the hard-scrubbed floor, turning the whole room a bright yellow.

  The porter was round and pleasing in the mouth, Jake had to admit. Even better was Mistress Johanna, who lost none of her spark indoors. As van Clynne and Blom fell into a long debate about the decline in the quality of ale yeasts – a crucial ingredient in the beer – she took up a station to Jake’s left in front of the fireplace. Johanna propped a long iron poker across her lap, though the fire was not in need of much attention at the moment.

  “That’s quite a stick you have,” joked Jake.

  “In case you attack me again, I want to be prepared.”

  “I’m already in your power.”

  Johanna shot an embarrassed glance toward her father. He was deep in conversation – surely the decline in yeasts went back fifty years, and had to do with the shift of the Atlantic currents.

  Though pretty, Jake had already concluded she was too young for more than the mildest flirting, and he merely nodded and sipped his beer as the girl walked slowly back to the kitchen, hesitating enough to let him know she wouldn’t mind being followed.

  Meanwhile, van Clynne and Blom had changed not only their topic of conversation but their style of talking, low whispers replacing loud boasts.

  “You’ve stopped by just in time, Claus,” said Blom. “We have a little adventure planned this evening, around midnight.”

  “A party?”

  “You might say, though the guest of honor won’t take much pleasure in it. The Smiths have been hosting a British agent, who’s trying to recruit the countryside to desert to the king.”

  “Found no takers, I hope.”

  “None. But we can’t have that sort of thing going on in the neighborhood. We’re going to tar and feather the devil tonight, and send him on his way. Myself and a few of the local Liberty boys.” Blom glanced toward Jake, who pretended to be engrossed in watching Johanna leave the room. “Do you think your friend would come along?”

  Van Clynne made a face. “I think not.”

  Jake slunk back in his spindled chair and waited for the Dutchman to give him away. He had resigned himself to admitting he was an American agent – and positioned his pocket pistol in case they weren’t ready to believe him – when he heard van Clynne say that Jake was a Quaker and thus could not participate in any warfare.

  “Best to leave him totally in the dark,” added the Dutchman.

  “Have you tested his loyalties?”

  “Oh, I vouch for him,” van Clynne bristled. “But let us not take unnecessary chances. The more people who know of an operation, the more chance for something to go wrong. Some people just can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  Even disguised as a Tory deserter, Jake Gibbs couldn’t pass up an opportunity to wreak a little havoc on the British cause, especially if all he was sacrificing were a few hours of sleep and the possibility of fending off the innkeeper’s daughter. Besides, he wanted to make sure van Clynne survived to help him north in the morning.

  Jake wasn’t sure what to make of the Dutchman’s lie about his being Quaker. Perhaps he felt obligated by their business deal, or else his demonstration of prowess with the pocket pistol was still fresh in the squire’s mind. In any event, van Clynne didn’t mention his planned sojourn when they were packed off to the upstairs room to sleep.

  Unlike many backwoods inns, there were separate beds. Jake didn’t object when van Clynne took the one nearest the door, nor did he let on that he was still awake a half hour later when Blom knocked on the door and whispered that it was time to leave. The Dutchman had fallen asleep – his snores were akin to the doleful soundings of a beached whale – and Jake was treated to a few minutes amusement as Blom tried to wake him. Finally, the innkeeper pulled the Dutchman’s beard, and he bolted upright with a start and a whispered curse.

  Jake let the pair get a head start, then snuck out of the darkened house and trailed them up the road. Van Clynne’s grumpy voice carried farther than the light of his torch. He spent much of the short walk complaining about the sudden chill of the night – in the old days, spring came on with reckless abandon, and there was never a need for as much as a jacket once the snow had gone.

  Jake saw why Blom had been interested in recruiting him when the pair met four or five men gathered in front of the hamlet’s small church. None of these Liberty boys was younger than sixty. The tiny community had sent all of its young men and a few of the older ones as well to the nearby fort: these old gentlemen were all that remained of the local population.

  They were a feisty lot nonetheless, and in the manner of Liberty men across the continent, had prepared a proper tar bath and an effigy to impress the British recruiter with. As they passed a bottle to rally their youth for the coming action, Jake slipped back in the words, as much to stifle a laugh as anything else – these ancients sounded like a squad of nineteen-year-old privates, ready to take on the world. But there was no need to tell one versed in apothecary sciences that age was largely a matter of the mind.

  Just as he settled into the darkness, Jake heard someone else moving through the nearby woods. He stood deer-still and watched a small figure emerge from behind the trees, study the gathering, and then retreat. The patriot spy followed along as quickly as he dared, as quietly as possible. The shadow – so short and thin he must be a boy of eight or nine – climbed over a rail fence into a cleared yard and began running; Jake had to let him get a very long lead before he decided it would be safe to pursue.

  It was easy enough to see where he went. Well before Jake arrived at the back of the hous
e, he realized the destination must be the Smith family homestead, and that the boy must be allied with the Tories.

  “They’re on their way, Father,” said the lad to the two taller figures in the road in front of the house. “They’re in front of the church.”

  “Good, Jamie. Go inside with Mother and make sure the cannon is ready. Mr. Peters and I will be here for awhile longer.’

  Peters – whose accent gave him away immediately as a British officer fresh from south Wales – was working on a vast ditch in the road in front of the house, filling it with water from a nearby well. “We’re ready,” he told Smith. “We’ve just got to cover the trench with the rushes and dirt. No one will see it in the dark.”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” said Smith.

  “They’re coming to kill you, man,” declared the British recruiter indignantly. “This is merely a small trick you’re playing on them. No need to feel guilty.”

  “The swivel cannon, though.”

  “We’ll fire it only if they attack the home. You’ve got to protect your family.”

  “What if it goes off by accident?”

  “Buck up, Smith. These people are rebels.”

  Jake let the reluctant Tory continue his debate with the devil as he snuck to the back of the house, determined that there would be no such accident. In truth, most Loyalists did not feel the qualms Smith expressed, and Jake saw some hope for him – though not if the evening proceeded as planned.

  A small lean-to was located at the back of the house, serving as the family as a summer kitchen. The voices inside the building indicated that mother and son – and at least two other children – were working on the swivel gun in the front room. Jake could easily sneak in while their attentions were turned toward the cannon and the street.

  He had brought two of his pistols with him, and he took one now from his belt. Already loaded, he wanted to use it to scare the family into submission – but only scare them, for he was loath to hurt women and children, no matter how misguided their loyalties. He therefore took the unusual expedient of removing the flint from the firing mechanism – the pistol was cocked, and except to a careful eye, would seem ready to fire. Jake could even pull the trigger, though nothing would happen. The other gun remained ready at his waist.

  Hearing noises in the distance up the road, Jake wedged his foot inside the door and eased it open, sneaking into the kitchen – and directly in front of the business end of a large, ancient, but very definitely loaded and simmering matchlock.

  -Chapter Six-

  Wherein, Jake finds that not all Whigs and Tories are ready enemies.

  “Drop your weapon, sir, or you will find yourself singing in Gabriel’s choir,” said the gun’s master, the same lad who had earlier acted as advance scout.

  Jake couldn’t help but admire the young man’s spirit. He also couldn’t help but hold his arms out at a fair length, then slowly bend his knees for the ground.

  “I’ll just set my pistol down here,” he said, placing it on the long, woven carpet before him.

  “Now take a step away. Smartly if you please,” said the lad.

  “As you wish,” said Jake, who stepped with his right foot off the rug — and with his left foot pulled the cloth suddenly forward, judging that the boy was too light and the floor too polished to offer much resistance. He judged correctly – and caught the lad and his gun as they flew upward.

  “Let go of me or I’ll tell Mother!”

  “I’ll tell her myself,” said Jake, holding the squirming lad beneath his arm like a log as he fetched and extinguished the matchlock. “I admire your bravery, but you’re expressing it on the wrong side of the fight.”

  “My father will have you hung.”

  “Your father will do well not to be hung himself,” said Jake, carrying the boy forward into the front room where his mother was waiting.

  “Put my son down, sir, or I’ll shoot you through with this swivel cannon.”

  The woman had turned the gun, mounted on a thick steel tripod in the middle of the front hall, to face him. She was holding a fuse stick in her hand. Jake could see from the flush in her throat that her heart was beating close to its limit.

  “Come now,” said Jake, taking another step inside. “I have no desire to hurt you, and I know that you don’t want to hurt your son.”

  “I warn you, sir, don’t test me.”

  The swivel was a very light but also exceedingly deadly gun. A bit more than four feet long, it weighed near two hundred pounds, but was situated on a mount that made it relatively easy to maneuver, even for a woman. It could not be turned quickly, however, and Jake had only to take two quick side steps to get out of its line of fire. With his third, he tossed the boy toward his mother. Instinctually, she put up her arms to catch the lad, and in so doing, dropped the wooden switch she meant to use to fire the gun. Jake clamped down on it with his foot, dropped the matchlock and pulled out his pistol.

  “Please, madam, step away. This gun is loaded and I will feel very sad if I have to shoot you.”

  “Go ahead, rebel,” said the woman. “I am ready.”

  It was terrible to see such bravery wasted in a Tory, and Jake shook his head. “I would not make your poor children orphans,” he said. “Into the kitchen with you now.”

  Two little girls emerged from behind a chair and brought the standstill to an end. The woman gathered them to her quickly, and cursing Jake to hell, escorted her brood to the back.

  Unfortunately, this was not the end of this family’s bravery. For in his rush to press his advantage, Jake had left his deflinted pistol on the threshold. As the woman made a break with her children for the backyard and freedom, her son Jamie decided he had not yet surrendered – slipping from his mother’s arm, he went back into the house and grabbed the gun, continuing inside to confront the intruder.

  “Well, you’re just the type we need fighting on our side,” Jake said, as he looked up to see the boy before him. The lad’s mother was just coming inside, and now Jake saw the brave look from before had been turned to one of deep worry. “I should like you to meet General Washington,” he told the boy as he continued to work on the cannon, wadding a piece of the carpet in the mouth so it would misfire. “He has a gun just like that one.”

  “He’s a rebel and a scoundrel,” said the boy.

  “No, no, the general is a brave man,” said Jake, picking up the lit stick. “You would like him very much, and he would like you. He likes brave lads.”

  The boy steadied the gun in both hands. In truth, he might have had a good chance of hitting Jake had it been able to fire.

  “Put down the gun, Jamie,” said his mother behind him. “He said he wouldn’t hurt us.”

  “You can’t trust a rebel, Mum.”

  As Jake took a step forward, he realized Mrs. Smith’s face might not only express concern for her son, but for him as well. Perhaps they might find their way to the right side and do it good service.

  They certainly had the raw materials of spunk and bravery – the boy leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger at point-blank range.

  “The flint is in my pocket,” said Jake as he took it from the bewildered boy. “But this other gun is well-loaded. Take the boy and the other children into the woods, madam. The cannon will make a dreadful mess when it explodes.”

  Outside, the festivities were just getting under way as the old Liberty boys marched up the road with much shouting and threats to the king’s well-being. They had mounted their vat of tar on a small cart and pulled and pushed it along with such abandon that it slipped quite easily into the moat Smith and the British villain Peters had constructed.

  “That’s what you get, Rebels,” said Peters, emerging from a nearby bush and standing over the ditch.

  “We’ll run you out,” promised one of the few men who had not fallen into the water-filled hole. “And you, Smith – we’d hoped for better from you.”

  Smith’s response was cut short by a tremen
dous explosion from inside the house.

  “My wife and children!” yelled the Tory, running for the building.

  He was no doubt surprised to find his neighbors running right behind him, echoing his concerns. Jake certainly was, as watching from the shadows he saw the men help Smith put out the flames and call for his family in the shattered ruins. Suddenly politics had ceased to matter, and the Liberty boys even held off citing this catastrophe as an example of what came from associating with the British until Smith was tearfully reunited with his family.

  The reader knows that most encounters between would-be Loyalist and ardent patriots have not ended with optimistic promises to help rebuild the former’s damaged house as this one did, but Jake could not help but smile as he slipped toward the road, realizing that the British recruiter – now helping douse the flames – would find no further succor here, and would indeed end the night by being placed under arrest.

  Jake could also not help but smile at the cries of the one man left in the muddy pit, Claus van Clynne.

  “Help!” called van Clynne, who could not get a good enough footing in the slippery mud to pull himself out of the waist-high water. “I can’t swim. This water is deeper than the Atlantic. A rope or a hand before I drown would be greatly appreciated.”

  Not wanting to blow his cover unless absolutely necessary, Jake crept silently to the edge of the moat and made sure the Dutchman was in no immediate danger. He then trotted back toward Blom’s house, so pleased by the events of the night that he found himself wishing Johanna were just a few years older.

  -Chapter Seven-