between them, the Americans sought to block British shipping north. But the British had already shown that the river defenses were no more than a passing nuisance to their boats, and given both the strength and disposition of the English, trying to hold the makeshift fort was a fool’s mission.
Unfortunately, those who perished in its defense were brave soldiers, not fools; among the dead were many members of Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Knowlton’s Rangers. Those who weren’t killed were captured, for all but the officers, this was mostly worse than death.
Knowlton himself had been killed earlier during the action at Harlem Heights; in fact, Jake could see the spot as the dawning sun began extending its rays through the trees. Though never assigned to the colonel’s troop, he had always considered him a role model. His loss cost the patriots dearly.
But enough sadness. Jake and van Clynne pushed south quickly, hoping to gain as much time for their operations as possible. As they passed James Delancey’s farm on the outskirts of the city proper, Jake held out his hand for Van Clynne to slow down; they trotted onto Grand Street in an almost leisurely pace.
“ Hungry?” Jake asked van Clynne.
“ Famished,” said the Dutchman. “But is it wise to venture onto the seas with a full stomach?”
“ You’re only going into a harbor.”
“ Is not the harbor an arm of the sea?”
“ I think you need a tall mug of ale, despite the early hour,” said Jake.
“ Rum, answered the Dutchman. “Strong rum.”
After showing van Clynne inside a small inn where he was on good terms with the proprietor, Jake ran across the street to the shop of a purveyor whose name will be recorded here as William Bebeef. Bebeef was a man valuable to those whose politics coincided with Jake’s, doing good service by them. He was, unfortunately, suspected by the British of being a member of the Sons of Liberty, but as of yet he was free to come and go without apprehension. A large part of the reason for this was his fame as a supplier of various apothecary potions — and a few formulas that went beyond the usual cures for measles and love sickness.
Bebeef’s encyclopedic knowledge of medicines and chemistry went far beyond Jake’s own, and the agent had some hope that the old man could conjure a temporary cure for van Clynne’s water phobia. But Bebeef was not in the shop; as a precaution, he’d taken to staying nights with his sister in Brooklyn. The lad he’d left in charge — woken with a discreet shake of his cot — was a mere apprentice who had hardly progressed beyond simple cures for dog distemper. Jake did not have any time to spend cobbling together concoctions himself, much less send for Bebeef. By way of compensation, he borrowed a package the chemist stored against contingencies, figuring his own might prove more urgent.
The bundle was a special type of bomb shaped like a miniature keg, bound of a very light fire wood. A short fuse ran off each end and was twisted in the middle; there was a space of perhaps three seconds between lighting and ignition of the explosive.
The powder at the center of the weapon was packed very tightly and shaped into an odd series of curlicues, held in place by starch-stiffened baffles, which, Bebeef had explained to the boy, acted like a magnifying lenses, except they worked on sound, not light. The effect of his meticulous engineering was to produce an explosion so loud that it could literally stun anyone within fifty feet into a temporary state of shock. Jake had seen one of these “noise kegs” stop the advance of a British column up Long Island last fall. While awkward to use, it was just the thing to cool a hot pursuit. Jake placed the bomb in his saddlebag, intending to reserve it for their escape from the city this afternoon, and then went inside the inn to retrieve his companion.
The Dutchman was on the point of ordering a piece of pie to go with his run.
“ I thought you weren’t hungry,” said Jake.
“ The good woman tells me the pie here is made according to an ancient Dutch recipe, and it would be a shame to pass it by.”
“ Take it with you then,” said Jake. “We have to go.”
The Dutchman grumbled, but otherwise offered no protest as Jake called for a bill. “I was thinking,” he said, tugging Jake’s sleeve. “Perhaps I should take some of that sleeping powder with me, in case I have trouble aboard ship.”
“ I have no more,” said Jake, “and there isn’t time to prepare any. Besides, if you’re caught with it, Howe will realize something’s up.”
“ Only after he wakes.”
“ The operation depends on his never suspecting a thing. Here,” said Jake, reaching into the scabbard at his belt and producing the assassin’s knife. “Carry this with you.”
“ That skinny thing?” Van Clynne pushed the dagger aside on the table. “I have my own knife, thank you.”
“ It’s not just a knife. You see this?” Jake pointed at the ruby.
“ I rather doubt the general will be bribed by such a bauble.”
“ The knife is used only by members of the British Secret Service Department. The fact that you have it will signify to Howe that you’re a special agent. It will make him trust you.”
“ Really?” Van Clynne picked the knife up and examined it carefully. “The Secret Department?”
Jake nodded solemnly. Van Clynne turned the weapon over in his hand.
“ Will they believe a Dutchman is part of their army?”
“ I don’t see why not,” said Jake quickly, trying to boost his companion’s morale. In truth, the higher ranking officers might. He hoped van Clynne wouldn’t have to put it to the test. “The British are not given to asking questions where the department is concerned,” he added truthfully. “Generally, their agents have only one mission — to kill someone. They’ve assassinated princes all over Europe. Supposedly, they’ve even killed a pope or two.”
“ And who should I say I’m supposed to kill?”
“ You don’t say under any circumstances. If you do, they’ll have to kill you.”
The reader will be left to imagine the conversation as it proceeded, with van Clynne continuing to question the contingencies and Jake continuing to assure him that it would not matter. The discussion continued in hushed tones as they rode amid early rising British soldiers and local residents to Pearl Street, where the boat to take van Clynne to Howe would be waiting.
The masts of the British Navy, along with the various commercial vessels in port, formed a hedgerow across the front of Brooklyn Heights. Admiral Lord Richard Howe’s flagship the Eagle, where his brother General Sir William Howe was staying, was a good distance out, near Staten Island. It was a heady, proud ship of the line, and while far from the biggest in the British fleet, nonetheless it was a leviathan here.
Van Clynne tried not to look at any part of the water, not even the seafront before them as they approached the port. Instead he conjured the vision of his pleasantly landlocked homestead. He could see himself staring up at the long gabled roof, admiring the smart windows, the small roof over the door. All he had to do was close his eyes, get across the water, and give Howe his bullet.
“ Oh my God!” said van Clynne suddenly. “I don’t have the bullet.”
“ I’ve got it right here,” said Jake. “Relax.”
The admonition was answered by a sharp smack across the back that sent Jake flying into the dust. It had not come from van Clynne — the sergeant of the guard and three of his minions stood before the portly Dutchman.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“ Where are the two men I sent to escort you last night?” the sergeant demanded of van Clynne.
“ What do you mean, knocking my friend down?” responded the Dutchman. “And where did you come from?”
“ We have been standing right here the whole time. You would have seen us if not for your incessant
