simple frame tavern and the adjoining barn, used by Prisco as the stable. He had just come from checking on his assistant and some horses.
'Well, well, Mr. Gibbs. And the redoubtable Squire van Clynne,' said Prisco, holding up his torch. 'My niece will be glad to see you.'
'And I her,' admitted van Clynne, an uncharacteristic shyness suddenly entering his voice and tying his tongue.
'Judge, my mare has hurt her leg,' said Jake, dismounting to show him. 'I'm afraid she'll be made into some soldier's dinner.'
Prisco — Jake called him judge because he was the local justice of the peace — examined the animal with a gentle hand.
'I do not think the injury is that bad,' he concluded. 'We shall nurse her back to health if you can spend a few days.'
'We have business north,' said Jake, 'but I would be obliged to you if you watched her for me. I will pay for her feed.'
'All she needs is a few days' rest. New shoes, too,' added the innkeeper, examining them. 'It's difficult to find a smith these days; all the good ones and most of the rest have been put to work on the chain. But Elmer's lad should do a passable job.' He called to his stable boy and turned the horses over to him.
'Does this horse look familiar to you, Judge?' Jake asked as his stallion was taken.
Prisco's round face turned quizzical as he studied Johnson's horse. Neither it nor its former owner were known to him, but he confessed that this did not necessarily go for much.
'My politics are well known. Few British spies have the audacity to announce themselves, though I daresay they have darkened my halls. It is hard to tell these days who is friend and who is foe,' added the keeper, who had to stretch himself considerably to pat Jake on the shoulder. 'Come now, I've just tapped a new barrel of ale.'
'I've thirsted for it all day,' said van Clynne, leading the way.
Chapter Three
William Shakespeare earned much praise by comparing his mistress to a summer's day. Three times as many accolades would be won by a poet who could compare the object of Claus van Clynne's desire to some natural wonder, as the metaphor would be wilder and the language further stretched. Ovid's metamorphosing and Homer's blindness would both be put to strong use.
Or to place it another way — sweet Jane has proven her patriotism under fire and has many other fine qualities, but alas, physical beauty is not numbered among them. Her nose does not quite fit her face, her eyes are off-line, her legs off-kilter. She is sweet, she is brave, but she is decidedly plain.
Do not suggest this to the Dutchman. Nay, admit no impediments to his true love. Once inside the inn he made straight for the summer kitchen, where he found the girl laboring over a plum pie, her homespun dress clinging neatly to her skinny hips and her mobcap tied with a light blue ribbon the Dutchman had left during his last visit. The words they exchanged, the looks — that pie had not half as much sugar.
Jake, meanwhile, took up a corner in the inn's great room not far from the fireplace, which was lit even though it was a warm night. The polished wood-paneled walls glowed a soft red with reflected light and warmth. The patriot spy reached up and plucked a large pewter tankard from the recessed shelf near his chair, appropriating the largest drinking vessel in the place.
But he filled it with Prisco's mildest cider. In truth, Jake had earned a bit of rest, and did not have a pressing agenda — the distance to Albany could be traversed in a third of the time allotted, if he cared to do so. It would be natural for the lieutenant colonel to relax with a full helping of the fine brown ale Prisco was noted for. But a condition of wariness pressed upon him, and restlessness as well. The Rhode Island captain had lit a hot fire of concern in Jake's breast. Not for the first time in the war he worried that he could not do enough to help his cherished Cause to victory. Thus he studied the crowded room and its contents carefully. The sturdy chairs and chestnut planks beneath them seemed to hold no secrets; at first blush, neither did their occupants.
These were the usual assortment of characters one finds along our highways. There were, naturally, local farmers talking politics and sopping up ale and cider; a traveling mechanic, who in conversation revealed himself to be something of a cross between a wheelwright and carpenter; a trading merchant or two, with an ear out for a likely deal. In the far corner of the room, two men with white beards and bare pates were hunched over a small but well-scrubbed pine table, playing checkers. The old fellows had been similarly occupied the last time Jake and van Clynne visited the inn; they pushed their pieces along at lightning speed, as if rehearsed.
Jake got up to stretch his legs and stood by them thinking perhaps it might be diverting to engage in a game. He also thought these ancients might have an idea about the identities or business of the three men he had earlier dispatched to Pluto's vale.
'I wonder if I might play the winner,' suggested Jake, pulling up a chair near the old men.
Neither man answered. The game was almost over, with red about to have a third man queened — an oxymoron that nonetheless gave him a crushing advantage. Two moves later, black was cleared from the board. The combatants regrouped, changing colors and ignoring Jake.
'Next game then?' he asked hopefully, trying to appear solicitous.
When there was no acknowledgement, he decided the old geezers must be hard of hearing. Jake was about to wave his hand between them to get their attention when he was tapped on the shoulder by a man whose vigorous manner made his frame appear taller than it was, indeed, taller instead of shorter than average. About his own age and dressed much as Jake in the rough clothes of a farmer, the fellow had a quality in his smile that immediately invited a person to like him. 'You look as if you would like to play draughts,' he suggested. 'I thought I might. But these old fellows seem to be in a world of their own.' 'Perhaps you would play a round with me. I've just borrowed a set from the proprietor.'
'Gladly,' said Jake, who called for a refill as the stranger set up the game on an old keg near a drafty window at the side.
'John Barrows,' said the man, sticking his hand out over the game board.
'Jake,' answered the patriot spy.
If the fact that he had given only his first name bothered Barrows, the farmer didn't let on, plunging happily into the competition. The match proceeded quickly; the stranger was not very good and Jake had four queens on the board before his drink arrived. But the man was nothing if not stubborn, staying in the contest until the bitter end.
'Draughts is not my game,' he confessed. 'Now chess — there's a game for me.'
'You play chess?' asked Jake. 'I haven't played since I was in London.'
'Yes, I play — I wonder if the keeper has a set,' said Barrows. He jumped from the chair and went to find Prisco, returning not only with a set but with a candle to provide better light.
Jake's guard by now had eased; he decided to enjoy a game with his new companion and draw him out on the local situation at his leisure. It was not often one found a chance to play chess these days.
To make conversation, he told Barrows he'd come down from Fishkill. It was true enough, except that it omitted his recent foray in New York City. They exchanged some other pleasantries and minor bits of gossip. The man said the neighborhood leaned to the Whig side, though there were plenty of people like Beverly Robinson who still held with the king. Jake supplied only bare hints of himself, pretending to be traveling on unspecified business.
Their chat was curtailed by the quickness of the game: Barrows’ skill once more proved less advanced than his enthusiasm, and Jake had his king pinned before twenty moves had passed. 'Another game?' he asked. 'Surely,' said Jake, changing sides and even offering a pointer or two on technique and opening. For naught. Jake won this game in sixteen. He was surprised when Barrows requested another chance at revenge. 'All right,' said Jake. 'Would you like a handicap? I can play without my castles.'
The man's expression, which had been jolly enough considering the circumstances, turned positively delirious.
