In Jake’s view — perhaps prejudiced since he knew Burgoyne only by rumor — Carleton was a much better commander and governor; his resignation was a break for the Americans. But perhaps it had come too late.
“ General Burgoyne is quite a man of learning,” remarked Marie. “They say he writes poetry and plays.”
“ I’ve heard he was a better poet than a general.”
“ If that is so, why did your army retreat to Ticonderoga?”
Jake had no answer for that. Burgoyne’s reputation in Boston had been that of a dilettante whose major military achievement was staying behind the lines while others took a beating. But the facts were these: He was now in Canada and the Americans were not.
“ Carleton met Burgoyne in Quebec a few days ago,” Marie continued. “The ball Tom mentioned is in honor of the general’s arrival here tomorrow. The governor may be angry, but he keeps to the proper forms.”
“ One thing I always admired about him. I’ll compliment him on it tomorrow night if we meet.”
“ You can’t be serious about going to the ball.”
“ I wouldn’t miss it,” said Jake. He was indeed serious — it would give him a chance to chat with every field officer in Burgoyne’s army. It would be an easy matter to obtain the invasion plans, at least in outline. With time running out on the Americans, Jake couldn’t afford to spend several days scouting troops or planning a break-in at the British headquarters. He had to get back to Schuyler as quickly as possible — time was even shorter than Flanagan suspected.
“ I’ll have to buy a new suit of clothes and some face plasters. Since your good Captain Clark has already seen me, I don’t want to arouse his suspicions with a different disguise,” said Jake. “Perhaps you can help me pick out something dashing.”
“ But Jake, if Carleton sees you, he will certainly recognize you.”
“ I’ll just have to take care that he doesn’t, won’t I?”
Chapter Nine
For an eighteenth-century man, Jake was rather eccentric about bathing. He tried to take a bath twice a week if possible, and occasionally more, even in the winter. This flew in the face of scientific thought, and was one of the few areas where Jake, who had made a strenuous study of the philosophic arts and endeavored to live by their principles, strayed from the reasoned path. He simply loved to bathe, and despite the weight of the mission head, rose early the next morning and headed out to the stream behind the house to indulge himself.
Marie’s homemade soap was strong, pricking at his skin. The early spring air was quite cool yet, no more than forty degrees. Still, Jake let himself collapse back on a rock in the middle of a small pool of rushing water, watching as one of Marie’s dogs chased after a pair of ducks by the stream bed.
His thoughts soon returned to matters of more significance. With the cover story of a physician already established, he could sound out the British soldiers at the ball about joining the expedition. Details of the coming attack would flow from their mouths like the silky water around him.
As long as they didn’t remember him. Jake knew that the British Army had been greatly reinforced since his last sojourn, and that most of the old guard had been transferred, but there was at least one man guaranteed to know who he was — Carleton.
Even with his hair freshly curled and as many plasters on his face as fashion allowed, it wouldn’t be easy to fool the governor. But a more complete disguise would mean he couldn’t go as Marie’s cousin. Even if he found another way in, he’d be deprived of Captain Clark’s very useful entree.
All in all, his best course was simply to avoid Carleton. It shouldn’t be too difficult if the gathering was large. Undoubtedly the governor would be preoccupied, and besides, the last person he’d expect to see in Montreal again was his long-lost secretary.
Jake turned his concerns to his rusty dance steps as he walked back up the path to the house, trying to remember whether at beat six or eight that one dipped his knees in the minuet.
He had settled pretty firmly on six by the time he sat down to breakfast. He was mildly surprised and not a little pleased that the servant girl had cooked a full plate of wheat cakes for him on Marie’s instructions. A pile of dried berries topped the place and some fresh sausage held down the side; it was easily the best breakfast Jake had had in weeks.
“ Perhaps after breakfast, you can give me a shave,” said Jake as the girl returned to the fire.
“ We’ll have the barber do that in town, if you don’t mind,” said Marie, entering the room behind him.
Jake thought he detected a slight tone of jealousy in her voice. If so, he dispelled it with a slightly more than cousinly kiss on her cheek, then sat back down to work on his cakes.
“ We’ll have to buy you some fresh clothes, if you’re to go to the ball,” said Marie, as she looked over her servant’s work.
“ Good. There’s some business I want to attend to in town,” said Jake.
Marie’s expression warned him from saying anything more revealing in front of the girl, as if that were really a danger. He finished his meal, and within a half hour had hitched Marie’s horse to her chaise, or cariole, as the French called it.
Marie’s estate was located only a few miles from the bank of the St. Lawrence directly to the south of Montreal, but to reach a place where they could board a bateau they had to travel in a large circle to the east, passing through three neighbor’s holdings. Each of these had been broken into smaller estates and farms; Marie waved and greeted each person they passed by name.
Marie did not own a house in the city, but as the journey was somewhat lengthy, she planned to spend the afternoon and change for the ball in the apartments of a friend.
After she got Jake outfitted, of course. She knew a tailor who could be pressed into quick service for a few extra coins. Jake could make do with his present breeches, but a coat of powder blue — now that would be just the thing to set off his shoulders, wouldn’t it?
“ And you’ll have to get a new hat!” she exclaimed.
“ But I like this hat. It’s been with me since Boston.”
“ Exactly.”
In the end, he did get a new hat, a large, round beaver with an upturned brim and golden feathers that made him look vaguely Spanish, or so said the tailor. The man muttered considerably at the amount of work he was expected to do to prepare the coat — luckily ordered by a customer who had the bad sense to die the day before he was to pick it up.
The blue jacket threatened to clash with Jake’s brown breeches, but the addition of a yellow brocaded vest turned the outfit into something quite modern, even racy for the colonies. Two watch chains signified the cutting edge of fashion, with their charms, ribbons and baubles hanging off and making a pleasing clang when Jake walked. The fact that their ends were fastened to pieces of metal instead of watches were besides the point.
If there was a woman in Montreal who could have resisted his charms when he arrived, she would be positively swooning now. A bit of lilac water, a good deal of scalding to his hair, which was then powdered and tied in a correct black bow beneath his hat — London itself would have fallen at the feet of this young swain.
Which Jake supposed, was a good enough cover for a spy. For who would suspect the man who stood out from the crowd and called attention to himself instead of lurking in the shadows? “Do I look like Jake Gibbs, the rebel provocateur?” he would say to anyone confronting him. “Well sir, I am not, though from what I have heard of the dog, I would be glad to meet him face-to-face, so that I could challenge him on the field of honor for insulting the king. Rumor has it he hung a rosary of potatoes around the king’s effigy, and I would very much like to avenge that dishonor.”
Hopefully, brave words would be enough. For Jake had come to town unarmed, except for his pocket pistol — a larger weapon would have drawn too much attention, most especially at the ball.
Jake tested his self-assurance as well as his disguise by striding through the Montreal marketplace not far from the wharf. The square teemed with soldiers, but they did not seem to pay him much mind; to them he was one more useless dandy.
