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 house, 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.
