'Our rifles don't take bayonets, sir.'
Jake smirked, suddenly feeling like these boys' uncle. In truth, he was no more than six or seven years older, though his experiences sometimes made him feel a grizzled old man. He touched their rifles — handcrafted Pennsylvanians, at least — patted them each on the shoulder and set his pistol on the dresser. He winked in Sarah's direction, but she was too shy, and too concerned about her father, to let herself be seen.
'So who is this Captain Flanagan?' Jake asked.
'Colonel Flanagan, sir,' said the first man. 'He is General Schuyler's aide.'
'Schuyler's with congress in Philadelphia.'
'He's on his way back. Colonel Flanagan has orders from him, sir, pertaining to you. He requested your presence in the name of the general.'
Jake sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated the situation. Maj. Gen. Philip Schuyler was technically in command of the northern department of the army, which included Albany as well as most of northern New York and New England. But congress had superseded his control a few months before by placing Horatio Gates in charge of the troops at Ticonderoga and northward. The political row was quite notorious; you couldn't get within a hundred yards of General Washington's headquarters, let alone Philadelphia, without hearing some rumor of its latest development.
Jake had a low opinion of Schuyler and a somewhat worse appreciation of Gates. Still, he was not in a position to disobey a summons from a major general, or even one of his aides. Most likely, the colonel was only looking for information — call it gossip about his commander's situation.
But how had he learned of Jake's arrival? Jake was supposed to be on leave; the only person in Albany who knew he was here was Sarah, starting to shiver despite the blanket.
'Tell you what, friends,' said Jake, taking a stagy glance toward the wardrobe. 'It's worth half a crown if you find me in, say, half an hour.'
To their credit and his frustration, the patriots couldn't be bought. The best he could do was make them wait outside for a minute, during which he kissed Sarah and promised to return as soon as he told Schuyler's ape to fly off. Jake and his horse were soon trotting behind as the men double-timed to Schuyler's mansion on the banks of the Hudson.
He didn't need them to lead him through the streets and then the half mile or so south of town; he was familiar enough with the Pastures, having gone there some years before while traveling with his father as assistant and secretary. He especially loathed its overwrought Chippendale roof railing, which crowned a pretentious and yet somehow frumpy Georgian-style house. To Jake, who had been in Britain but four years before, the Pastures was at best a third-rate copy of a third-rate English country home, hardly worthy of a true democrat. Especially if the democrat was of Dutch extraction.
But then Jake was always finding the Dutch a confused and confusing race.
'Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs.'
Jake extended his hand to meet Flanagan's as the officer walked across the large study where he'd been waiting. The colonel, in his mid-fifties, was dressed in a well-tailored blue and white uniform, with officer's silver epaulettes. Stocky and several inches shorter than Jake, he wore a powdered bag wig, which had gone more or less out of fashion even in the provincial cities with the onset of war. But then Jake didn't think he'd been asked here to comment on Flanagan's coiffure. He stood stiffly in front of the proffered chair and asked why he had been sent for.
'Relax a moment,' replied Flanagan. 'Would you like a drink? I'm sure the general would insist.'
Schuyler's taste in Madeira was legendary, but Jake declined. Sarah was waiting. Flanagan went to the sideboard and poured himself a half-glass.
'You've heard, of course, that General Schuyler has countered the New Englanders and their slander,' Flanagan said as he carefully measured his drink. 'There are a few i's to be dotted, but Gates is out and the old man is back. You can count on that. General Washington himself is lobbying on his behalf.'
Flanagan's comment about the New Englanders, though true enough, was a bit of a faux pas — born in Philadelphia, Jake had spent much time in Massachusetts and had originally been enlisted as an officer in a Massachusetts regiment. No matter where his superiors lined up politically, he felt close to the New Englanders whose spirit had first imbibed him with a lust for freedom. But he said nothing.
'He's standing for state governor as well, you know,' added Flanagan, whether to try and awe him or make idle conversation, Jake couldn't be sure. 'He'll win that battle, too.'
'No doubt. So why precisely am I here, Colonel?'
Until now, Flanagan's manner had been anything but impressive; Jake theorized he was merely trying to draw out the latest command gossip. But as Flanagan turned to answer Jake's question, he seemed to grow several inches. His face, which had appeared a bit flaccid and tired, now suddenly looked vigorous and determined. Jake had seen this in many officers promoted from the working classes because of merit in the field — they were awkward in the drawing rooms, but sharp swords in battle.
'The Northern Department has need of the Revolution's finest spy,' said Flanagan. 'General Washington directed General Greene to find you. He in turn sent word that you would be here — a most fortunate coincidence.'
'With all due respect, Colonel,' said Jake, 'I'm not in the habit of spending my time on local conspiracies. I do not want to sound like I have an inflated head, but surely there are other men available for your local problems.'
'This is not a local problem.' Flanagan's voice had the measured cadence of a man used to giving orders. 'The Revolution is at stake.'
Jake wasn't swayed at all. Inevitably, when someone used such inflated terms, the job turned out to be the simple apprehension of a merchant who sold a few grains of contraband tea on the side. 'Well, if it's only that,' he said sarcastically.
But Flanagan's voice, instead of cracking with fury at being found out, dropped to a bare whisper. 'Burgoyne is planning an invasion down the Hudson. We don't know when; we don't know by what route. If we cannot stop him, the continent will be split in two.'
A bucket of snow could not have sobered Jake's disposition more effectively. As he waited for Flanagan to continue, he felt his heart start to pump. A certain itch developed in his thigh muscles, and his senses sharpened so acutely that a piece of dust could not fall in the room without his being aware of it. For if certain physiques are made by nature for certain tasks, Jake's was tuned for facing danger.
'We need intelligence on the British plans,' said Flanagan. 'We need it as soon as possible — it already may be too late. Our forces are too small to be spread out across the entire state. If we do not know the proper route, and when to expect them, we will surely be beaten. Ticonderoga will fall, then Saratoga — and the British will stand at the head of the Hudson. All will be threatened, including Albany.'
Jake folded his arms across his chest as he considered the difficulties of a mission north. 'There must be a dozen men under your command who are more familiar with the territory between here and Canada,' he said. 'And if time is of the essence — '
'I'm not trying to flatter you, but given the critical nature, we must have someone whose success is guaranteed. I'm not,' Flanagan added in a softer, very measured voice, 'asking you to volunteer. Your command arrangements have already been changed.'
He reached into the inside of his brocaded vest and pulled out several folded sheets of paper. 'You have been assigned special duty under General Schuyler and are to act exclusively as his agent until further notice from the commander-in-chief.'
Jake took the papers and saw immediately that the first was written in General Greene's neat if flowery hand. The opening sentence set it out as authentic: 'Considering the happy consequences of such an important and critical operation and the great need for thoughtful but timely accommodation…' The overwrought tone was unmistakable; General Greene couldn't write a requisition without referring to the glorious potential of the American future, and throwing in a few references to Swift and Locke.
The second sheet was an adjunct's note approving the temporary posting in the Northern Department; the third a paymaster's notation for funds that would be available for the mission. But the clincher was a letter from Joseph Reed, which would have been dictated by General Washington himself. The sum of this bundle of papers was that Jake had been assigned to the Northern Department 'indefinitely' for 'special and diverse missions, as it
