“ A good buy,” answered Jake, trying to signal with his eyes that van Clynne should shut his mouth.
“ Oh, no. If I were arranging it, believe me, I could have gotten it for half. Yes, it’s a fine horse, but mares are always worth less.”
A small patrol from the garrison that commanded the pass in the hills below the village stopped them and briefly asked their business. The soldiers were quickly satisfied and the travelers resumed their journey. Jake let Herstraw accelerate at first, gaining a bit of a lead, then prodded his mount to catch up. The horse seemed glad — the animal was positively a wonder, made to run very fast and undoubtedly for days on end. It did not like to proceed at anything less than full gallop, and was constantly urging its master on.
Surveying the British messenger, Jake concluded that the silver bullet was probably sitting in the bottom of the hunting bag Herstraw had slung over his shoulder. IT would be a simple matter to wait for an unguarded moment, take the bag and exchange the bullet. All he had to do now was wait.
And wait and wait, as Herstraw neither stopped nor dropped his guard while they rode south as a moderate pace. Van Clynne filled the time by haranguing them with a theory that the water in this area made for a very good ale, if boiled and then allowed to sit overnight in a tin tub.
“ You’re wondering why tin, no doubt?” said van Clynne.
“ I’m not wondering about anything,” said Herstraw. “Except how to survive your prattle.”
“ Tut tut,” said van Clynne generously, proceeding to explain the relation of “flavor noodles” in the otherwise pure water and the magnetism of the metal vessel.
The land here was in American hands, being still many miles north of the British lines at New York City, but that hardly made it safe from attack. Their superiority on water gave the British a mobility that was difficult to combat.
The Americans had undertaken a massive defensive measure to block off the Hudson River to British ships, stretching a long chain across the Hudson at a bend just north of Peekskill. An assaulting army would have not only the chain to contend with, but a series of forts and artillery batteries that would make the narrows treacherous going.
Nonetheless, Jake’s tactical eye saw many gaps in the defenses. And while the fact that no patrol challenged them on the road southeast of Peekskill meant their cover stories wouldn’t be put to a test, it also meant that British spies and rangers would have an easy time getting in and out of the area.
Peekskill had, in fact, been attacked twice this past year, once in February and again in March; both assaults had done real damage. The British had occupied the village during the last raid, and there were some who said the redcoats’ retreat was due to whim, not fear. The HMS Dependence was lurking offshore somewhere, and farther south, Dobbs Ferry was an effective British stronghold.
One thing Jake had to admit, the British messenger had gall as well as courage. He was living up to his boast to Burgoyne, traveling right through the heart of patriot country. Jake watched him carefully, half expecting a sudden bolt towards Dobbs Ferry for a rendezvous.
“ You’re always brooding, sir, just staring into space,” van Clynne said to Herstraw as they rode. “Why are you so moody?”
“ I’m not,” he said, his response so gloomy that it contradicted itself
But Jake realized the man wasn’t staring into space; instead, he was examining the defenses. Now here was a messenger with ambition — he would have a full report for General Howe once he arrived in New York. No wonder he went toward White Plains instead of seeking a safer route along the river.
Jake’s apothecary studied had taught him about the root of a certain tree that could induce amnesia. Such a potion would come in handy now — he could slip it into Herstraw’s drink and wipe out his knowledge of the American defenses.
Of course, there was no way to get the root cure here, as it grew only on a small island south of the Cape of Good Hope in Africa. But thinking of it led Jake to settle on a potion that would help him accomplish his more immediate and important aim of switching bullets — sleeping powder. He could mix a particularly potent version from some simple ingredients, assuming he could find an apothecary shop along the way, as well as a reason to go into it.
A feigned stomach ache was just the thing. He began moaning straight away, and as they passed through a small village, excused himself to find a cure. His most difficult task was convincing van Clynne to continue on without him. A series of clandestine hand signals did not work, nor did a hissed warning have much positive effect. Finally, he had to beat the Dutchman’s horse away, ordering him in a threatening whisper to catch up to Herstraw and not let him out of sight.
The apothecary bought supplies through the Gibbs family firm, charging twice the recommended markup — which itself was nearly ten times his purchase price. The result of all this free enterprise was that Jake paid forty dollars for some powders that cost, at mostly thirty cents at their source. The purchase greatly depleted his supply of paper money, the man noticed Jake’s annoyed countenance when he announced the price, and he told Jake to be glad he still took Continental money.
At least the man was selling unadulterated medicines, and seemed to know his trade, Jake noted, for he warned against inadvertently mixing the potions, which ostensibly were for ptomaine poisoning, warts, and hay fever, along with a potion that occasionally cured love sickness. “If they meet each other, even for an instant, you’ll fall dead asleep,” said the druggist.
Jake nodded solemnly, saving his smile for outside. The smile remained on his face for more than a mile down the road, until he came suddenly to a fork. Signs on both branches claimed each the best way to White Plains.
But here van Clynne proved his resourcefulness as well as his usefulness. He had pitched his pocketknife, easily identified by the inscribed initials, on the side of the proper road. Jake scooped it up and soon rejoined them.
Herstraw seemed almost relieved to see him — the Dutchman now had someone else to talk at. Which he did, practically nonstop, through lunch and for the rest of the day. All the while, Herstraw kept his bag right at his chest, and Jake could find no opportunity to inspect it.
The sun was already gliding toward the trees and they were still north of White Plains, despite their steady pace. This was not a good area to travel through during dusk, let alone at night. On the one hand, it was unsurpassed in beauty, running through the foothills that rose from the Hudson. A hundred-plus years of colonization had not succeeded in erasing its wild nature; the trio passed under the watchful eyes of a hawk, heard the cries of a lone owl, and even saw a herd of deer run through the nearby forest.
But Nature’s wildness brought out something evil in the men who lived here. A traveler sticking to the main road during daylight was safe enough, but venture along some secondary route and you were ten times as likely to meet a bandit as a friend. The war had done more than scramble allegiances; it had weakened codes of conscience and morality, making outlaws of men who just a few years ago would have been working at forges or farms. Some were driven to banditry by necessity, their lands having been burnt or their places of business destroyed, but there were many with less mitigating circumstances.
The three travelers readied their weapons in case they were attacked. Jake was careful to keep the ruby- hilted knife under his jacket — while Herstraw might not know its special significance, Jake didn’t want to test him.
They were not quite to Young’s Corners when Herstraw decided he could go no farther, and pulled off at a large “ordinary” or inn along the road. Jake and van Clynne allowed themselves to be guided by his movements; though he sneered, the upper-class English gentleman in him expected nothing less.
A figure at the edge of the road nodded in their direction as they stopped. Herstraw, as charming as ever, ignored the man’s greeting. Van Clynne made up for his companion’s deficit in manners by strolling over for a chat that began with a complaint about how darkness was no longer as dark as it once was.
Following Herstraw inside, Jake watched the care with which he placed his hunting sack next to his chair and hooked its strap around the leg. He might just as well have pasted a sign around it, saying the bullet was there. The American took a seat nearby, waiting to pounce as soon as Herstraw left the room.
“ Strange fellow,” complained van Clynne, entering the room presently. “Claimed to have business! No time to talk.”
“ What a surprise,” said Jake.
“ At least he agreed with me about the lack of shine in the stars.”
