Never had Jake fought a man so much taller than himself. His limbs were narrow and yet he had remarkable strength, whipping his punches back and forth as if he were cracking a bull’s tail. Jake threw himself forward, fighting off the pummeling to grab Manley around the torso. He shoved his knee upward; Manley moaned as he fell back. But the British agent surprised Jake with a roundhouse right as he surged forward again, and the American fell off to the side.
Not even the coca leaves Manley chewed could match the fury in Jake’s muscles as he called on his body’s reserves to deliver him from this English demon. Liberty herself aimed Jake’s fist as he threw it, cracking Manley’s head back against the wall. Manley brought his arm around and punched Jake’s neck, but as he tried to slide away, Jake struck with the dagger he’d caught in midair on the lake. The red ruby in the hilt end seemed to glow as sharp blade found its way into the villain’s heart.
Three times he plunged into the vast chest, waiting until he felt the death rattle reverberating through the long body as it slipped to the ground. He withdrew the knife and saw his enemy’s last glance, a bewildered, angry look that foretold several centuries of restlessness for his now homeless soul.
Jake had no time to ponder Manley’s future as a ghost. He stepped back through the tumult of bodies sailing around him, then plunged down the steps, escaping outside.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Given the reverses of the past twenty-four hours, Jake felt somewhat relieved to make the edge of the woods without pursuit. He felt even better when he heard a familiar grumbling up ahead in a clearing.
Van Clynne had smashed his foot upon a log and was implying that Heaven had placed it specifically in his path. The squire’s mood lifted upon seeing Jake, whom he feared had been killed or at least captured by the untimely arrival of the British.
“ Thank God you’re all right,” said the squire, clapping him on the back and forgetting all about his injured toe.
“ Thank God for you, too,” said Jake. “You were a wonder in there, Claus. I really must admit I couldn’t have pulled this off without you. Wait until General Washington hears this story.”
Ordinarily, van Clynne would bask in the glow of such praise. In fact, it is hard to imagine otherwise, given the squire’s hopes for the restoration of his property.
But the Dutchman was a great student of odds. And though the average bystander would have computed the changes of his getting the right bullet into Herstraw’s boot at fifty-fifty, he knew that certain other laws came into play at a moment of crisis. Call it Van Clynne’s Law — the shoe will always be on the wrong foot when catastrophe strikes.
“ The wrong bullet!” exclaimed Jake.
“ Perhaps I am wrong,” said van Clynne. “You open the bullet and read the message.”
But of course he was correct. And none of Jake’s curses — nor van Clynne’s — could change that.
The troops had moved their tents to the front of Roelff’s property and doubled their guard. The windows were ablaze with light; no doubt van Clynne’s friend was now earning the extra money he’d been slipped by denying any knowledge of the rebels.
Much to his chagrin, van Clynne agreed with Jake that there was only one course open: return to New York City and carry out the exchange aboard Howe’s ship, while Jake arranged a reception for Herstraw in the city.
The prospect of crossing the water did not thrill the Dutchman, and he was silent the entire journey through the woods south of Roelff’s and down the road to Morisania. They had hopes of finding a boat there they might borrow.
The phony patriot raid had not only delayed Herstraw and his company, it had placed the entire countryside on high alert. Jake and van Clynne nearly ran into a pair of German soldiers, who fortunately were too angry at some slight from their sergeant to pay more than passing attention to the shadows diving for cover by the roadside.
When the mercenaries had passed, van Clynne gathered his bearings and led Jake through two yards and a path, down to the rocky shore. A canoe was tethered a short distance away. Alas, the path was treacherous and wet; the Dutchman soon slipped and only just managed to keep himself from crashing into the sharp stones.
The Dutchman’s fear of water had not abated, and so he may be excused for closing his eyes as he crawled forward on the rocks and groped for the vessel.
His eyes were quickly opened again by a series of excited commands, in German, to give up and get out of the boat. As van Clynne dove in, Jake leaped from the land into the canoe, a bullet whizzing by his head and plunking into the water not three feet away.
The other German was, fortunately, a worse shot, and Jake took advantage of the few seconds they needed to reload by paddling out into the current. All subsequent bullets whizzed harmlessly into the night, as long as you don’t count the one that struck van Clynne flat in the chest.
The musket ball is a curious projectile. Much of its potential force is lost in the gasses that escape around it in the smooth bore of the barrel. Still, it retains a considerable amount of oomph; while not particularly accurate at one hundred yards — or ten, for that matter — it can still blow a nice size hole in one’s chest.
Or in van Clynne’s
The Dutchman went straight over when hit, plopping with such force that the canoe bounced wildly on the waves, nearly causing them to swamp.
The plight of his friend gave Jake new vigor, and he soon made shore beneath the jagged heights of Harlem. It was difficult to haul the canoe up with van Clynne prostrate inside. Nevertheless, he managed; after securing it, he leaned back in the boat, wondering what he could do for the dead man.
“ You can help me up.”
“ Claus, you’re alive!”
“ My purse seems to have saved me,” said the squire, reaching inside his clothes and coming out with a large leather bag filled with paper and coins — and one half-squashed led ball. “Now if this had been a Dutch bullet…”
With Jake and van Clynne busy gathering their horses, tied a half mile away, now might be an appropriate time to sketch out the general environs of Manhattan island for readers unfamiliar with it. Trust that we will return to our heroes before anything of note occurs.
The northern portions of the island are wooded and hilly, not much different from Morrisania and East Chester across the shore. The Post Road — alternatively called the Road to King’s Bridge — runs south from the north- eastern corner a ways, then takes a sharp turn to find the center of the island, a kind of noose at the base of the long neck of Manhattan. Fort George and Fort Washington, not to mention a large Hessian encampment in the middle, cut the head off.
A battalion of ghosts haunt the grounds below the star-shaped walls of Fort Washington on the west side of the island. The fort had been the scene less than a year before of the patriot’s greatest loss in the war, a terrible and needless strategic blunder.
After How had taken the city with a strike from the East River, General Washington retreated and held the Harlem Heights, a strong ridge about halfway across Manhattan. Following a brief but fierce and victorious battle, General Washington once more thought it prudent to retreat, taking up positions in White Plains and the Jerseys.
And leaving behind a contingent at Fort Washington. These battlements consisted of redoubts on a position that commanded the battery above Jeffrey’s Hook. Among those who declared they could be held was Jake’s mentor Nathanael Greene, who had come from a sickbed to assist Washington in the final stages of New York’s defense.
Combined with Fort Lee directly across the river and the assistance of some purposely sunken vessels
