“ Come on, Major, let’s be done with it, eh?” said the boat’s captain. “We’re exposed here on the water. There are militia patrols passing the east shore every half hour.”
Manley’s eyes flashed from blue to deep purple. He spun quickly toward the captain. “I do not need you to tell me my business,” he said. “You will do as I instruct, and be glad that I leave you alive.”
“ I’ll thank you not to point your weapon at me,” said the captain, a good deal of the bluster gone from his voice. “We’re on the same side.”
“ Are we?”
The man nodded.
“ Perhaps I’ll follow your advice,” Manly told him. “But should I shoot him, or slit his throat?”
As he spoke, he reached into his belt line and pulled out the thin knife Carleton had given him as an emblem of his office. He illustrated the second option by running the blade point along the surface of the captain’s own throat.
“ As you p-please,” said the Tory, now absolutely spooked.
Manley turned to point his knife at Jake, a broad smile breaking on his lips. Just at the moment the grin reached its fullest, just at the point when his pleasure might truly be said to have peaked with anticipation, the corners of his mouth turned downward.
The change in his expression was due to the bullet that exploded through his back and into his gullet, fired by a pistol Betsy had secreted beneath the folds of her skirt. For she had fainted in form only — the general’s daughter was quite a soldier herself.
The momentum of the bullet threw Manley’s knife from his hand through the air toward Jake. In one motion, Jake grabbed it and slashed the ropes that restrained the horses. They bolted on cue, knocking over his guards and sending the boat into a high tumult. Roland wrestled with the Tory pirate next to him and the two fell off into the water. Everyone else quickly followed as the vessel swamped.
Jake swam for the empty canoe and boarded it; he soon found Betsy and pulled her in. Roland, too, was rescued, but he had a large gash on his side where a bullet had grazed him but was otherwise all right. None of the remaining kidnappers could be located, and Jake did not think it wise to dawdle looking for them. The American agent was well aware of the symbolism contained in the knife he’d used to help gain their freedom; he’d had his various tete-a-tetes with the British Secret Department before.
Jake paddled quickly if somewhat gingerly toward shore; each time he poked his oar into the water, he half expected to strike poor dead Charlemagne, floating uneasily in his grave.
The horses thrashed violently but beat the canoe to shore. Waiting for their masters, they shook themselves off as if they’d just gotten out of a pond after a summer romp.
Alerted by the gunshots, a handful of soldiers rushed to the shoreline to provide assistance. Jake, Betsy, and Roland were taken to a nearby house to dry off and gather their wits. Jake congratulated Betsy on her heroism, saying that her father should present her with a medal; she, in turn, praised both Jake and Roland, and mourned greatly the death of her friend Charlemagne. Her sentiments softened Jake’s previous opinion; perhaps she was enlightened enough to regret the evil of slavery, if not courageous enough to correct it. In any event, he was moved by her emotion and eulogy of her slain retainer.
The lieutenant colonel accepted a mug of rum from the owner of the house and stood briefly in front of the fire to warm his britches. It was barely noon and already he’d had a full day; a good part of him wanted nothing better than to rest here until the next morning. But this small adventure had already delayed him more than he wished.
The fact that the Secret Department had sent one of its agents after him complicated things. Hopefully, the assassin had worked alone and in complete secrecy, as the branch’s procedures general dictated. Hopefully, he had not had a chance to alert Herstrow.
So many hopes, so little certainty or time.
Jake still had the bullet, safe in its secret pocket. He also had Leal’s knife. But he was once more without a gun, having lost all three Kim pistols to the lake. He borrowed a weapon from one of the militia officers, along with fresh powder and ball, promising that Schuyler would restore them.
His horse seemed to have enjoyed the morning — the beast gave a good whinny and stomped his feet, urging his rider to get going.
“ But your clothes aren’t even dry, and your hair is wet,” said Betsy when Jake came back inside to take his leave. She had gotten out of her dress and was wrapped in a large quilt blanket. Somehow, the shapeless fabric was even more flattering than the beautifully brocaded garment she had worn this morning.
“ I’ll dry on the way,” said Jake, who permitted himself one last diversion — he leaned forward and kissed her.
“ Good luck,” said Roland solemnly at the door.
“ And to you,” said Jake. “I hope you will be justly rewarded for your bravery with freedom.”
Across the room, Betsy was nodding. So, at least some good would come from this.
Chapter Eighteen
The ambush on the lake caused a delay in Jake’s plans, not only because of the time involved in the incident itself, but because the loss of the boat meant he had to proceed by land, where it was more difficult to make up the lead Herstraw had obtained. Schuyler had given him tend days to accomplish his task, but in truth this amounted to something closer to eight, since he would need to leave time to return to Albany with word of his success.
The general’s horse was a fine beast, with thick muscles and long legs, quick eyes and sharp movements. But the strongest animal needed food and rest, and this one was no exception. Every delay was a frustration. Though Jake stuck to the main roads, these were not so fine as to guarantee quick progress. Aside from the potholes, there were long swathes of mud left by the recent heavy rain.
By the end of the second day, Jake had only just reached the other side of the river from Albany, and had yet to spot his quarry or even hear definite word of him. He stopped in an inn and tried to catch some sleep — even his boundless energy required an occasional nap to be recharged — but the proximity to Albany turned his thoughts to Sarah and her family. After two hours of fitful stretching and wrestling with the covers, he rose and set out, doubling his efforts to catch up with the spy’s party.
Jake soon adopted a desperate routine: He’d hop from his horse on a dead run as he pulled up to a house or inn, plunge inside and shout for the proprietor. In the shortest speech possible, he’d demand to know if a man answering the messenger’s description had traveled through; then he’d ask about van Clynne, whom he realized would be a more memorable guest. If the answer were no — and for a while it seemed as if it would always be no — he’d rush back outside and resume his journey.
The approach lacked subtlety, but his inability to find any trace of Herstraw worried him a great deal. He feared that the messenger had changed his route and perhaps his tactics.
Finally, late in the afternoon, a startled innkeeper in Claverack told him that a party answering his description had passed through that morning, hoping to make Rhinebeck by nightfall. Jake thanked the man, threw a gold guinea down for his troubles and fled back to his horse.
With the next few miles of the journey passing uneventfully if quickly from Columbia to Dutchess County, the narrative will take a slight detour to address the matters of patriotism of the countryside, as it bears not a little relevance to the attitude of men passing through it. If, for instance, you are wondering why Jake rides with a loaded and cocked pistol in his hand as night comes on, here is the reason.
As a general rule, it is often posited that the strength of local support for the Revolution varies in direct proportion to the closeness of the British Army; that, in the case of the Hudson Valley, the closer one draws to the city of New York, the more support one finds for the so-called Royalist party. As is usual with generalities, this one is good enough from the distance, but on close inspection reveals particulars that render it meaningless. Dutchess
