He did more than pause on the other side, however — he collapsed in a heap as his leg gave way. It was only with the greatest exertion of energy — and a few close musket balls — that Jake managed to stand and pull himself aboard a horse tied to a nearby post. He yanked the leather stays loose and the animal obliged his deepest wishes by fleeing up the street.
— Chapter Thirty-two Wherein, Jake’s injuries are discovered to be acute, and van Clynne concludes his negotiations.
N ew Yorkers are a funny lot. They have no greater or lesser esteem for the rule of law than citizens elsewhere; they are not, as one writer (undoubtedly a Tory) has charged, “a sorry class of criminals intent on knifing as many of their fellows as they meet before bedtime.” But they are a particularly focused people, and when on a mission connected with business, can be quite single-minded about achieving it. Thus, they tend to ignore things that, in retrospect, strike outsiders as impossible to ignore.
The shouts of the redcoats chasing Jake, for instance. No vast flood of citizens came to the soldier’s assistance, no vigilante Tories sprung up to seize Jake’s horse and hand him over to the authorities. The soldiers were naturally disappointed. But this was the entire experience of the British in the New World. They felt that all they would have to do was show up, shout a bit, and the Revolutionaries would be nabbed before they could turn the corner down William Street.
Such was the gist of Howe’s complaints that very moment aboard ship in the harbor. He was quite unaware of what was going on in the city, of course, but he would not have been too terribly surprised.
Van Clynne was quite aware that he had stretched out his visit considerably longer than necessary, and notwithstanding the difficulty of his return across the water, was now anxious to leave. But his mention of Canada had provoked the general into telling the sad tale of his brother George’s death at Ticonderoga during the French and Indian War. He seemed almost on the verge of becoming weepy. This was no way for a general of Howe’s station to act; the entire scene was becoming unseemly.
“ Buck up, man, buck up,” said van Clynne. Much to his surprise, and the general’s, he slapped Howe across the face.
This brought Howe to his senses, not necessarily as wise thing to do.
“ I could have you tied to the anchor and dragged across the harbor for that.”
“ I was only trying to say, Sir William, that you are forgetting your assets.”
“ I’m not forgetting anything, you fool. I command the entire British Army! What do you command?”
“ Myself, occasionally.” Brave words, though van Clynne was trembling inside. Nonetheless, he had learned long ago in business negotiations that, once you have someone’s attention, you must proceed quickly or risk failure. “This bullet contains a message from General Burgoyne. I was instructed to deliver it personally to you, General. Here it is, and now I will be on my way.”
“ You will stay a moment,” said the general in a voice that did not invite disobedience. How called to one of his guards to supply a pocketknife; the silver bullet was soon opened and its message unfolded.
“ What does he mean, telling me not to come north? Who does he think he is, giving me an order? Not needed, indeed. We’ll see about that.”
As long as he was on the horse, Jake’s leg only hurt. Pain was not exactly a stranger to the patriot, and he was as bothered by it as most of us are annoyed by a mosquito bite.
The great crowd of traffic he rode into had the advantage of slowing the British, but it also slowed him, and when Jake and his horse approached the end of Spring Street, he saw that his way was blocked off by a set of wagons. Unable to urge the strange horse through, Jake decided he would do better on foot. He theorized that he would be able to slip into the crowd unnoticed, and thence find a place to hide. But airy theory came to earth with a sharp rip from ankle to knee as soon as he hit the ground — his leg was more damaged than he thought.
Jake’s blood ran from his head, and as he stumbled forward through the crowd what little balance he had was lost. He bashed into the side of a farmer’s small wagon, ricocheted into two or three people, then landed in the dirt. With a great exertion of will and muscle, he flailed forward, crawling and groping, but got no farther than a sturgeon might if plucked from the nearby river.
He was still crawling when he came head first into a large leather boot. Grasping on the leg to boost himself up, he felt himself lifted by a pair of hands from behind. Too late he realized that the hands were attached to a body clad in red.
Howe stormed back and forth across the deck, his florid face swollen to twice its former size, or so it seemed. The star he wore on his coat as a sign of rank and duty glowed hot with wrath; at every moment it threatened to launch itself into space.
If it did, and if it could be guided, surely it would seek out Howe’s rival general many miles north in Canada. The message van Clynne had carried was so tactlessly worded that Howe’s interpretation of it as an insolent order was quite understandable. Under ordinary circumstances, the merest mention of the name “Burgoyne” invited displeasure. Howe, with some justification, felt that Gentleman Johnny had spent much time in Boston lolling at headquarters and claiming credit while he himself was out risking his neck at the head of the troops. There was also a political element to this jealousy. Both men had been parliamentarians, but Burgoyne was generally conceded the flashier figure; Howe, if he had gone into the Commons for anything but to help his military standing, would never have gotten further than a splinter-stuck back bencher.
Years of insults reared up as his temper was released. The masts shook with it; the deck began to wobble. The Norse god Thor, had he achieved half this effect with his thunderbolts, would have been well proud of himself.
Van Clynne stood calmly through it. He had experienced much worse trying to cut half a crown off the price of a load of beaver pelts.
“ I have been planning a Philadelphia campaign,” said Howe when he caught enough control of himself to form his thoughts into complete sentences. “I had been planning to seize all of the colonial capitals and then negotiate in a civilized manner. But this — he aims to make me look the coward. Don’t bother coming north to Albany! He’s saying that he will beat the rebels single-handedly. The arse.”
“ Begging your pardon, sir,” said van Clynne gently, “and while I agree with your opinion of the general, is it no he who is the coward here?”
“ How’s that?”
“ Well, the note does not say he is attack Albany. On the contrary, it says nothing to that effect at all.”
“ And how do you know?”
“ You’ve read it three times to me, Sir William, and I would have to be either a dunce or deaf not to know it by heart now. ‘You’re not needed; don’t bother coming north. Yours, General Burgoyne.’”
“ Is it not the most insubordinate piece of piss you’ve ever heard?”
“ It is indeed, but if I may be so bold, that is all it says.”
Van Clynne paused, firmly in control. How many contracts had he dissected with similar rhetorical skills? How many agreements with the Indians had he navigated? To him, this message, with only ten words including the signature, was a trifle. “The general does not say he is coming south, does not say he intends to attack at all. More likely, given his reputation, he means to stay in Canada. He will fill his time with delays and ballroom dances. Remember how late in the year he and Carleton attacked last year.”
“ Carleton is a good man. He is a bulldog as a general.”
“ Yes, but he has been sacked by Lord Germain and is returning to Britain. Without Carleton as his prod, how far will Burgoyne get this year? Ticonderoga? He will dawdle away his early advantages and then, at the first sign of snow, pull back.”
Howe, himself no fan of the continent’s winters, began mulling this.
“ If here were intending to attack,” continued van Clynne, “he would surely have said”
“ Not if he were worried that the message would fall into rebel hands.”
“ Impossible!” declared van Clynne, his voice rising. “He knew I was the messenger. Besides, the patriot lines are like a sieve.”
“ Patriot?”
