W hatever the state of Revolutionary fervor in New York City prior to its invasion, its capture by the British greatly amplified the presence of Tories there. By now the city had become a safe haven for all manner of Loyalists. In direct proportion it became inhospitable to true patriots. But this did not mean there were none left among its citizens. On the contrary. Many of the vast population, especially the lower rungs of working people, stood by Liberty’s flame, though they’d taken the precaution of hiding it beneath a bushel basket. And there were still Sons of Liberty about, as well as a good number of regular spies — one of whom Jake was on his way to contact.
The meeting place will surprise many students of New York politics, for it was nowhere else than the coffeehouse of James Rivington. This is the same Rivington who publishes the Gazette, that hideous newspaper that has given vent to the most evil mutterings against the Cause of Freedom imaginable.
So how, then to explain that Rivington’s was the headquarters for one of General Washington’s most accomplished spies, Culper Junior? How to explain that this Culper Junior — as he remains under cover, we will use only his code name — worked for Rivington and, by some accounts, owned half the coffee shop with him? Was it merely a perfect cover? Was Rivington, a notoriously loudmouthed British apologist, a double agent? Or a fool?
Jake wasn’t sure. He knew only that Culper Junior was completely loyal to the Cause. Beyond that, the coffeehouse was a perfect place to set up shop as a spy; not only was it the preferred place for Royalists to gather and discuss business, but nearly every British officer in the city of any importance spent some part of his day there. Any child with half a wit could gather a full dossier simply by wandering among the tables.
Culper Junior was neither a child nor someone possessing only half a wit. He noticed Jake at the door amid the early morning crowd immediately, and arranged to have one of his lads present him with a note directly: “Next to Coffeehouse Bridge. Five minutes.”
The Coffeehouse Bridge is not a bridge at all, but rather a long wooden platform running down Wall Street for about a block between Dock and Queen streets. Ordinarily it is used for auctions: the reader might envision it as a stage set in the middle of an area convenient for commerce, and not be far wrong.
Exactly five minutes after he had taken up his station, Jake was met by the small boy who had handed him the note in Rivington’s. “Met” was not quite precise; this was a clever lad, who took the precaution of approaching Jake with mock nonchalance. Suddenly darting toward him, he tugged at Jake’s shirt as if stealing something and ran away. Jake marveled at the ruse — there was nothing in his shirt to steal, of course — and charged through the traffic with mock abandon.
The boy was quite fast, and his sudden bursts left Jake winded by the time they reached the alley where his appointment would be kept. The lad stopped short and pointed to a door. Jake smiled, patted him on the head and tossed him two pence as he opened it.
With this much preparation to keep them from being detected, Jake felt his confidence growing that this difficult business would be quickly concluded. Imagine the surprise and chagrin, therefore, when he was met inside the door by a German Jaeger and his bayonet point.
Jake was no weaponless; besides the pocket pistol, he had his large officer’s pistol in the side of his belt. But it was not primed, and in any event, by the time he retrieved it the Hessian would have stitched a decorative five- cornered star pattern on his chest. Discretion, therefore, was called for — Jake smiled, held his hands out as a sign of error and no harm done. His mind worked desperately for the few German words he knew; “mistake” must be among them, but for the moment the only one he could recall with any certainty was bier, obviously inappropriate.
The mercenary held his position but did not advance. Jake reached back for the door latch and realized that either it had changed shape and location, or another soldier with his bayonet extended was standing behind him. Slowly and as calmly as possible, he took a step to the side, offering a sign of surrender with his hands. He still had his forged British warrants and identity papers; surely he could work this out given time.
Granted, time was not one of his most plentiful commodities. He consoled himself by noting that at least van Clynne would be halfway back from the ship by now.
“ The trick is in the malt,” van Clynne said, swirling his mug around, then holding the cup toward the general. “You see the toasted color? That is all flavor, sir. All flavor, I assure you.”
The general studied the liquid, then took a sip. He swished it around his mouth as van Clynne had demonstrated, rolling his tongue first to one side, then the other before swallowing.
“ I never understood that there was so much science to drinking beer,” said Howe.
“ It is a great, deliberative science,” said van Clynne, signaling to the sailor to refill their glasses. “What’s more, it is an art.”
“ You don’t have to be anywhere in particular?”
“ General, I am completely at your disposal.”
“ Very good,” said Howe, reaching for his mug. “Very good. You shall join my officers in a small discussion. You can tell us what you’ve seen of the Neutral Ground and its defenses. Clinton in particular — and antidote to his pomposity would be very welcome, I dare say.”
“ With pleasure, sir; with pleasure.”
Jake had backed himself completely to the wall. There were now four Hessians guarding him. The men wore green and red uniforms, and would have been identified by Jake as members of the Hesse-Cassel Field Jaeger Corps, a crack unit composed primarily of hunters and riflemen who had much the same reputation for toughness and accuracy in shooting as the frontier elements of the Pennsylvania militia.
Except for one small detail, which loomed large in the well-trained eye of the patriot agents: they had bayonets.
The bayonet is a most deadly and efficient weapon; theoreticians of warfare claim with much validity that it, not the bullet, it the true vanquisher on the battlefield. But the bayonet was not typically fixed to a rifle, which was the jaegers weapon of choice. Nor were these rifles — the knives had their stems slotted into standard-issue British Brown Bess muskets.
Riflemen with muskets?
This lack of syntactical symmetry might mean many things, not least among them that the British had decided to handicap their most effective units with weapons ill-suited to their tactics.
Or perhaps not. The side door promptly opened to reveal Culper Junior, smiling and laughing. The rest of the company quickly joined in.
Sons of Liberty in disguise.
“ How do you like our Germans?” said Culper, clapping Jake on the back.
“ They’ve got the wrong guns.”
“ Still, they fooled you.” Culper’s amusement quickly passed when he saw that Jake wasn’t laughing. “I’m sorry for the trouble, but we have to take many precautions these days. There are Tory informers everywhere.”
“ I need your help intercepting a messenger,” said Jake. “He’s on his way to General Howe.”
“ Howe is on his brother’s flagship in the harbor.”
“ Exactly.” A look passed between them indicating there was considerably more to the story, but that it would not be made explicitly. “Can I borrow your German troop? We have to move quickly.”
“ They’re at your disposal,” said Culper. “As is my lieutenant, Mark Daltoons.”
Herstraw and his escort had passed the eight-mile stone south of Day’s Tavern on the King’s Bridge Road down to the city by the time one of Culper’s boys — the same who had led Jake to his “trap” — spotted them. That left precious little time to arrange the diversion at McGowan’s Pass, less than a mile away.
It had been at McGowan’s Pass the previous September that a stout group of American patriots held off Clinton’s advance guard, keeping them at bay while Washington and Putnam regrouped at the Harlem Heights above. The action here this afternoon was considerably less severe, but just as hotly contested — the British messenger and his escort, along with some sentries routinely posted to the area, found themselves suddenly under heavy bombardment.
