“ Monsieur, s’il vous plait.”
Jake sighed and reached into his money purse for a guinea. He tossed it to the farmer, then let go of the horse and strode to the back of the cart to board. The farmer smiled and made a clicking noise to get the horse going, barely waiting for Jake to get in.
It had been a long night. After abandoning the canoe downriver, Jake had walked across several fields and through a small woods before finding a road. With only the hazy light of the moon to guide him, he had stumbled toward the Richelieu River, which lay fifteen or sixteen miles as the crow flies east from Montreal. Jake was hardly a crow, and though he walked as quickly as he could and took the main road as much as he dared, he did not get very far very fast. The area was swampy and not heavily populated; he couldn’t even find a horse to steal along the way. AS the sun came up he was still several miles from Chambly; dead tired, he considered the farmer’s sudden appearance as an act of God.
The farmer soon had his horse at near-gallop, despite the mud and rocks that made up the road. Jake propped his coat beneath his head and tried to sleep, but the ride was too bumpy and he was too alert with the sense of danger.
Soldiers were encamped all along the route; it seemed as if the entire population of England and Germany had come across the Atlantic to deal with the rebellious colonies. Having approached Montreal from the west, Jake had not fully appreciated the enemy’s strength until now, when he was in the middle of it.
Fortunately, most of the sentries were either still sleeping or lackadaisical; word of the escaped American spy would not reach them for several hours. They let the farmer and his homemade cart pass without challenge.
Jake’s original mission was to get south with his information about the planned invasion. But he now had a second goal — apprehending the British messenger. Intercepting a letter from Burgoyne would lessen the chances the offensive would succeed; Burgoyne had as much as said so.
The messenger was on his way to an inn near Fort Hubbardton, had a head start, and was on horseback. The only way to catch up was to find transportation on Lake Champlain, but that was not going to be an easy matter. As the battle he had witnessed on the way north attested, the British had already had control of much of the northern reaches of the waterway.
Perhaps he could find a very small boat farther south that would escape detection. Of some consolation was the fact that Herstraw — if he played the role of a poor farmer, as he told Burgoyne — would probably not go on the lake himself, though he would stick to the roads along it, where he could count on finding British assistance if needed. So at least Jake would have a strong notion of where to find him before Bull’s head.
Another complication was the fact that Jake had left nearly all his weapons back at Marie’s homestead. The American still had his small pocketknife, but that couldn’t be counted on for anything but popping a blister. And his only gun was the four-barreled Segallas — an impressive and efficient pocket pistol, but unfortunately of limited range and firepower.
It didn’t matter — he would kill the British spy with his bare hands if he had to.
The farmer urged his horse onward with a never-ending cacophony of clicks, speaking some language only he and the horse understood. The animal moved faster and faster; perhaps the farmer was promising him more oats.
And then without warning they stopped dead on the road. Jake pitched forward in a tumble. Expecting the worst, he reached for his Segallas and peeked up over the side board.
He was astounded to see the roadway before them empty. Indeed, the front of the cart itself was empty. The farmer had left it was running toward the side of the road.
The American spy watched with curiosity as the Frenchman went to a small collection of stones by the side of the road and proceeded to cross himself, kneel and bow his head. He stayed in front of the shrine — a crude cross about two feet tall stood beyond the stones — for a good five minutes before jumping up and returning to the cart on a dead run. The horse neighed, the Frenchman clicked, and they were once more on their way, flying south on the road for several more miles before the entire drama was once more repeated.
The third time was too much for Jake.
“ We’re never going to get anywhere if you keep stopping every few minutes to pray,” he said. “Can’t you just say amen or something and get one with it?”
The farmer explained, or rather didn’t explain, in very quick French, that it was a holy obligation to stop at a martyr’s shrine and pray.”
“ Look,” said Jake finally, a second crown in one hand and the Segallas in the other, “here’s the deal. Another crown if you don’t stop, two bullets if you do.”
The man objected that his faith had been questioned, and launched into a vigorous defense of the holy fathers whose blood had consecrated this ground. It took every ounce of Jake’s self-restraint not to shoot the man.
Eventually a compromise was reached — the farmer would say a prayer as he passed each shrine, and Jake would add two crowns to the price of passage.
He grumbled as he handed over the money, due in advance. But though it depleted his purse, the new arrangement considerably speeded his progress, and by midday they had reached the small settlement outside Fort Chambly, the British post east of Montreal on the Richelieu. It wasn’t much of a fort as such things went — some tall blockhouses and stockades, but it was formidable enough given the terrain and his own circumstances. Jake’s muddied finery drew stares in the tiny village west of the embattlements, and he realized he would have to find more suitable clothing if he hoped to pass south without being detained and questioned.
The suit had cost Marie a good deal in Montreal, but even clean it would be next to worthless here, there being few balls to attend. Nor was it possible to just walk into a tailor shop and buy new clothes. What he needed was a fellow of roughly the same height and build who could supply, ideally, a hunting shirt.
Someone, in fact, similar to the man they were just passing on the highway, walking in the opposite direction. His sullen manner announced him as a coureur de bois, a woods runner or frontiersman; a trapper. His toque with its tassel announced him as decidedly French. He was wearing a homemade hunting shirt, cut from a piece of deerskin and imperfectly tanned. Most of the fringe was missing from one sleeve and the right side had been badly singed — a more perfect garment could not have existed in all of Canada.
Jake hopped from the cart, telling the driver he would meet him on the road south of the fort.
Theoretically, Jake could just pump the trapper, pummel him and take his coat. But being as how he was a visitor in this land, with some indeterminate portion of the army already after him, he decided to take a cautious and considerably more honorable approach and offer to buy it. The shirt was worth no more than a crown, if that; he’d give him two guineas for it and throw in his own jacket besides. He had no particular relish for the hat, but would take it if necessary to sweeten the deal.
But to bargain with the man, he first had to reach him. The trapper walked with a great stride, and Jake trotted and then broke into a full run to catch up.
“ Excuse me,” he shouted as the man turned down a small path that had appeared invisible until he stepped on it. “I wonder if I could have a word.”
The man made no sign of having heard him.
“ Sir,” said Jake, running up behind him. “ Monsieur, excusez-moi. Un moment, s‘il vous plait!”
The trapper answered by turning quickly — and flashing a knife.
“ Que diable voulez-vous? Laissez-moi tranquille!” the man shouted. What the devil do you want? Leave me alone.
“ Just a quick question,” said Jake, stopping short.
“ I hate the English and their questions!” said the man in French.
“ I agree with you there.”
Apparently, this was not quite the answer the man desired — he lunged forward with his knife.
The polite approach having failed, Jake dodged to the side and grabbed his assailant’s outstretched arm. While his being the same size as Jake was essential for the business end of their transaction, it made negotiations difficult — the trapper’s strength was similarly portioned, and it took a good amount of wrestling back and forth before the knife fell away.
This was far from the end of the conflict. The trapper managed to trip Jake and they fell together to the ground. Two kicks in his flanks and Jake rolled desperately away, only to find the man’s hands firmly around his
