Were there no candles or fire, his teeth alone could have lit the room.
'I believe that would be welcome,' he said. 'Very welcome.'
Jake had never seen anyone so ecstatic over a game of chess, not even in Parsloe's, the London hangout of Andre Danican Philidor and the rest of the English chess scene. Amused, he began moving his pawns forward in haphazard fashion, deciding that he would give his companion a double advantage.
This proved unnecessary. Jake had made only four or five moves when he realized that his opponent's game had improved sharply-so much so, in fact, that it was like facing an entirely new man across the board, a man who not only had a two-rook advantage, but had Jake's picket of pawns in deep trouble. It was Breed's Hill all over again — the redcoats, or in this case the white pawns, had charged ahead into the line while the patriots waited. Finally, the muskets opened up — a bishop slashed, a knight reeled, and Jake stood as naked as Gates on the battlefield. He struggled to pull his pieces into a protective cordon, wielding his dragoons and rangers as Washington had when he retreated up Manhattan Island, but it was no use; as brave as his men were, they were outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. The game ended with queen pinned and king checked — as should all wars.
'The handicap was your undoing,' said the man graciously, extending his hand to Jake as he pinned the queen.
Having unmasked some portion of his true skill, Jake expected Mr. Barrows would now ask if he wanted another game, with a small side wager to keep things interesting. The patriot spy was just deciding whether his game was strong enough to take up such a challenge when his opponent surprised him once again, taking a small, carved junk or pipe from his vest and asking if he would join him outside for a smoke.
'I like to get a good breath of fresh air in the pipe as I smoke,' said Barrows. 'It is an odd habit of mine, but I believe it enhances the flavor of the leaves.'
Jake gave a glance to the corner where van Clynne and Jane were occupied in a curious courtship ritual involving the communication of spirits through the ether. The pair appeared so enmeshed as to be dumbstruck, gazing into each other's eyes with less intelligence betrayed on their faces than on that of the average duck. Such a sight alone was enough to send Jake running outside for a smoke.
There was a second factor. Jake had noted during the last match that the man's hands were not so calloused as one would expect from a farmer, especially with the heavy plowing and sowing not long completed. It was a possibly significant anomaly.
'What did you say your name was?' asked the man as they reached the porch. Though of less than average height, his shoulders were wide and his muscular legs stretched his breeches tight.
'Jake Smith,' he said smoothly, trusting that the natural tone of his voice would allay doubt about the common alias. There are, after all, a great number of Smiths in the world, even if there are a greater number claiming to be them.
'You were in London.'
In that instant, Jake's loose suspicions became a definite theory — this Barrows was a Tory and an unusually bold and clever one.
Jake drew smoothly on the proffered pipe and nodded his head. 'Yes.' He handed back the pipe and self- consciously pulled his hair back into its ribbon, as if nervous. 'Before our troubles.' 'These are difficult times, aren't they?' 'It's the righteousness of the rabble that is so shocking.' 'Careful, sir, or you'll give yourself away.'
Jake realized the man was no ordinary Loyalist, content to keep his politics covered until the local tide turned. Barrows must be a recruiter working behind the lines, as accomplished at his job as at his chess game.
But he was no match for the disguised patriot spy, who had played out this sort of drama thousands of times before. Jake whirled around with an oath and started back inside, as if he took the man to be a patriot trying to start an argument with him.
'Just a moment, sir.' Barrows touched his arm lightly but firmly. Jake was a tall man, well built; Barrows’ head came to his shoulder. Still, the Tory was powerful, and his touch betrayed more than simple self-assurance. 'Let us be frank with each other. My name is not Barrows, it is Busch.'
'If you're looking for trouble, I'll oblige,' said Jake, still playing the offended Loyalist. 'I've had enough from your rebel brethren these past weeks, running me off my land.' 'Where was that?' 'Near Fishkill,' lied Jake. 'So you've come down from there.' 'I told you that before. I am not a liar.' 'You rode along the river?' 'What is it to you?' 'You passed the chain, I assume.' Even with his mask so firmly drawn over his true self, Jake felt an involuntary flutter pass through his stomach. He nodded. 'Did you see the defenses there?' 'I did not ride close to the shore. I have no care for the rebel army, one way or another.'
'In these times, it is difficult to know a man's heart from his words,' said Busch, his tone still suggestive. 'One may profess his allegiance to one side or the other, and yet be lying about it.'
Jake now had his opening and drove for it, as if he were leading a team of four horses with a full company of men behind him. His companion van Clynne could not have closed a sale so deftly.
'It's all so easy for you and your ilk, papering over things with your bogus law and your rump committees, but you've left a great deal of the country to starve, and all because of your foolishness,' Jake said hotly. 'Where do you think this will end but on the gallows? And this year, too — note the sevens, sir, the gibbets. I for one will be glad. Tar and feather me, if you like-I've nothing else to lose.'
'Careful, careful,' said Busch soothingly. 'Calm down. You've quite mistaken me.'
'How is that?'
'If you've had enough of things as they are, meet me here after the others have gone to bed, at 2 a.m. Say nothing to the keeper. He is a committed rebel and will put you in jail as soon as serve you an ale. Think it over, sir,' added Busch, smiling as he took a step toward the tavern door. 'Perhaps it's time you took your fate in your hands, instead of leaving it to others.'
Chapter Four
With darkness coming on and the inhabitants of Prisco’s inn repairing to their beds, we will shift our scene temporarily from the bucolic if troubled hills of the Hudson Valley to the lit streets of New York City. We are searching specifically for a covered chaise, making its way from the shadows on the west side of the lower island, across the precincts laid waste by the Great Fire, toward a mansion that sits atop a hill on the east side of the isle overlooking the Hell’s Gate.
The carriage’s finely carved wood panels and polished brass fittings are a fine example of British craftsmanship, imported directly to the city two months prior by its owner, who tonight sits alone in the cabin, contemplating the hard twists of life that have brought him to America. Less than a year before, he enjoyed all the prerogatives of London’s leading surgeon and man of science. But in that achievement lay the root of his downfall: the experiments that had helped him reach his position? of necessity performed on live subjects? had given certain small and jealous minds an opening. It was only because of his personal service to the kind that he escaped prison and much worse.
Major Dr. Harland Keen was not a melancholy man, and so his reflections did not have the hard-edged bitterness one would expect from so recent an exile. Nor did he plot a return to London society; he had had quite enough of it, and in many respects was glad of the ocean between him and his former home. Still a man of independent means, the doctor had a wealth of knowledge stored in his brain and a rapacious hunger for more. It was a hunger that the New World, and his position in it, promised to fill.
Major Dr. Keen arrived without fanfare at the mansion in question. This large brick house formerly belonged to a member of the provincial congress, who expressed his confidence in the American army as well as his political preferences by fleeing the city the day the English invaded Long Island. The house had since been occupied by General Henry Clay Bacon, the head of British intelligence services in America, and more ominously, the king's representative of the Secret Department.
It would not be surprising if the reader has not yet become familiar with the workings, or even the existence, of the Secret Department. By far the vast majority of people who have had occasion to deal with them have done so
