up Jake’s trail. He rode as quickly as he could despite his wounds; a flask of rum that he sipped from every hour was his only concession to the nagging pain.
In fact, Manley increased his discomfort by chewing constantly on leaves of a certain South American tree whose properties allowed him to go without sleep. The plant — natives used the word “coca” to describe it — grows in the Portuguese jungles of Brazil. It has nearly magical properties to provide energy and ward off sleep; members of the Secret Department had discovered them nearly a hundred years before while infiltrating the Portuguese court, and often made use of them in special circumstances. But there was a heavy price to pay for the increased alertness the leaves provided — the juices were extremely caustic, churning even a healthy stomach. Manley’s injured organs were in such a state that every few hours he found it necessary to dismount and vomit. The blood disgorged in the fluids would have been enough to make a lesser man faint.
The British agent succeeded in tracking Jake to Rhinebeck, where Traphagen remembered seeing him in the company of a Dutchman a day or so before. His boy had overhead them talking about Fishkill; Manley went there and after several hours finally found the housewife who’d given them their breakfast. It was fortunate that the British major was wounded and in a hurry, for under the ordinary circumstances he would have thought nothing of killing his informants as payment for their cooperation. Instead, he posed cleverly as an agent for General Schuyler, winning their confidence and even assistance. Twice he was able to trade horses, exchanging a beaten beast for a fresh mount.
It would be happy to report that Justice Prisco, our good innkeeper so recently met, saw through this ruse and managed to send Manley in the wrong direction. Alas, Major Manley had not achieved his position in the Secret Department by influence alone, and was able to weave such a convincing tale that the judge was easily taken in. Manley accounted for his wounds by saying he’d been shot by Tory bandits; he told the keeper and his wife that he must find his old friend Jake to recall him for an important mission to Canada. Prisco told him Jake was on the trail of a notorious British spy, who’d apparently been rescued by the British Army earlier that evening.
Sweet Jane alone was suspicious — the visitor made no mention of her new sweetheart, Claus van Clynne, a man whom she understood would be vital to any secret operation in the state, if not the country. Asked the direction Jake and van Clynne had taken, she wove a confusing verbal map that sent him toward Connecticut until he until he realized that he’d been hoodwinked. Cursing and heaving, he struggled to find his way back in the dark.
Chapter Twenty-six
Even the most astute follower of the Revolution will be excused if General Bacon’s name is not immediately familiar beyond the brief mention a few pages earlier. General Sir Henry Clay Bacon — “Black Clay” is a nickname affixed only by his enemies — plays a crucial role as an adviser for General Howe, yet he has always managed to stay carefully in the background. His official responsibility as director of intelligence for General Howe’s army naturally encourages a low profile.
Bacon is also the continent’s ranking member of the Secret Department, and as such, answerable directly to the king — not to civilian authorities, not even to Howe himself. The general is as discreet about this half of his identity as the department itself, and unlike other British officers, does not make a habit of bragging about the smallest of his achievements.
He also possesses an innate shyness, proceeding from the circumstances of his birth. For the general is said to be an illegitimate son of King George II, produced in his dotage during a liaison with a courtesan. There are wild rumors of his being stolen from his mother as a young boy and raised by another family whose last name was adopted, but we have not time to go into such stories with Jake standing momentarily tongue-tied on the threshold across from Bacon.
One other factor of his birth and indeed a major contributor to his most prominent physical feature, should be mentioned briefly before returning to our tale. The general was born with the caul or birthing sheath upon his face. While in many circumstances this is seen as a sign of good fortune, it was the opposite in Bacon, for it imparted a strange congenital disease. The general’s face had been slowly eroding since birth. Starting from a slight red mark on his forehead, fully one-third of his face now appeared consumed by a deep, corrosive disease — the black clay of his nickname.
Jake saw the mark and immediately knew whom he was facing. But before he could retreat, a strong arm clamped him around his shoulder. He was dragged forward into the room, much in the manner a bear might invite a friend for dinner.
“ Well, if it isn’t our good friend Dr. Jake, the only man in all of the colonies whose headache powders can actually effect a cure,” said the bear, known to his friends as Major Elmore Harris. “Come in and sit down, my good man. Gentlemen make room. General, I’d like to present a good Royalist and possibly the best doctor the colonies have produced, Jake Gibbs.
The sincerity of Major Harris’s praise was exceeded only by the amount of rum on his breath. Jake had given the major a bottle of headache powders the last time they met. He had also managed to steal some papers relating to the disposition of British troops on the island and the neighboring Jerseys. The circumstances under which the papers were taken should have left little doubt as to who their purloiner was, but the major’s manner as yet betrayed no ill will. Jake could only play along, letting himself be dragged to the table, smiling and bowing as he was introduced all around.
General Bacon sat at the end, with a proper border of space around him, befitting his rank. He acknowledged the introduction with the slightest nod of his head.
Did these officers suspect Jake’s true profession? If so, they gave no indication as the conversation progressed. After the unedited praise of his headache cure, the major went on to other matters, such as what Jake had been doing with himself these past few months.
“ Searching for new cures,” he answered, trying to think of the reply whose details were least likely to be challenged. “I have spent some time among the voodoo people on the Caribbean islands. You’ve heard of them?”
The response was unanimously negative.
“ They come from Africa and have a curious approach to nature,” Jake said, sensing the coast was clear. “I have lately traveled north into the wilderness in search of some of their ingredients. My ambition is for an oil that will speed the mending time of bones.”
“ But doctor, why would you want that?” asked one of the officers. “Then you would have less time to try your medicines, and receive considerably less profit by selling them.”
They had a good laugh at the general practice of apothecaries, which they understood Jake to be despite his using the title of doctor. In England there was a strict difference between the two, and a good deal of snobbery existed against druggists — provided, of course, you weren’t sick at the moment.
“ I have attended the University of Edinburgh,” Jake said stilly, seeing a chance to escape gracefully by naming the world’s most advanced medical college. “I resent the implication.”
He rose.
“ Don’t be too sensitive, my good fellow,” said Major Harris. “It was only a joke.”
“ Thank you, but I have other business here.”
“ I had a question for you,” said Harris, whose grip on his arm suddenly tightened.
“ We can discuss it another time, in different company.”
“ The doctor is right to be insulted,” said Bacon. At is first word, even the people at the far end of the room stopped speaking. “There is much to be gained from studying other peoples/ I myself am interested in the voodoos.”
“ That’s gratifying to hear, General,” replied Jake. The two men’s eyes met in the grim light of the tavern. Each instantly had a sense of the other — though Jake hoped the general’s was not as deep as his own.
“ I would be interested in discussing them with you,” continued Bacon. “Unlike some of our other officers, I
