“ You — “ Lewis ignored Jake and pointed to O’Connor. “Retie the knots on my fat Dutch friend there. The gag first. The man never shuts up.”
“ I don’t think we’ll do that,” said Jake. “You’ve only got one gun, and there are three of us.”
“ I have two guns,” said Lewis, throwing back his coat to reveal a second pistol. “And the sword besides. Really, I don’t expect much trouble. A fat Dutchman! To think the generals actually thought he might be a member of the Secret Department. A bad joke, surely.”
Jake stepped slowly to the side, lengthening the distance between himself and his compatriots. Even if the others were unarmed, Lewis would have a difficult time preventing them from escaping in the dark. They had only to kick over the lantern to get away.
Jake, on the other hand, would be shot unless he could think of something quickly.
“ General Howe seemed persuaded by the authenticity of the Dutchman’s message,” continued the officer, no more than six feet away. “But it’s not the first thing he’s been wrong about since he came to America.”
“ Snuff the light and throw the bomb!” shouted Jake, diving to the ground. “Throw the bomb!”
There was, of course, no bomb and it was not much of a diversion — just enough to momentarily confuse Lewis as he fired. Jake rolled on his side and then immediately jumped to his feet. With the long day’s last shot of adrenaline, he managed to find his opponent’s neck with his fist. But his blow was as weak as the flip of a trout’s fore fin — Lewis’s bullet had caught him in the shoulder, sapping his strength.
The British officer reached for his second pistol but could not grab it before Jake hit him again, this time with his good hand. The punch knocked Lewis backward and sent the second pistol to the ground, unfired. Lewis regained his balance and took a sharp swing at Jake, knocking him to the right. He fell on him and the pair rolled together, scraping and pulling.
Van Clynne and O’Connor hastened to help, the farmer grabbing a thick wooden staff from the side of the road while van Clynne intended to rely on his fist. But the light was too dime and the antagonists too tangled for either man to find a suitable target.
Lewis kicked Jake in the ribs, loosening his grip. Reaching down to his boot, he grabbed a dagger and slashed at the American, determined that no matter what else happened, he would have his man dead.
Jake rolled backward down the slight incline, dodging Lewis as he lunged. He, too, reached for his boot — and came up with the elk-handled knife Leal had given him. Lewis fell upon him and the two blades sang a metallic song of death.
What poet could miss writing such a finale, with the savage’s knife extracting revenge against the brutes who killed him? But Fate’s rhymes are more complicated than a sonnet’s — with one bold swipe, Lewis knocked the weapon from Jake’s hand. The British agent wheeled back for a final blow.
A smash from O’Connor’s stick provided a temporary respite, knocking Lewis sideways and allowing Jake to scramble to his feet and grab Lewis’s fallen knife. Lewis, not seriously hurt, picked up the other blade, and the two men were again handily matched. They circled each other, looking for an opening.
Van Clynne approached the tumult with the caution of a cat sizing up his prey. He waited until Lewis was a mere arm’s length away, then leapt forward to grab him around the neck, trusting that Jake would spring forward and provide the coup de grace.
Unfortunately, O’Connor had a similar strategy in mind, attacking from the other side with his stick, which he wielded like a battering ram. Lewis was too accomplished a fighter to be taken by either man, and somersaulted away at the last moment, leaving them to fall against each other. O’Connor’s stave hit van Clynne square in the forehead, and the good squire fell senseless to the ground, pinning the farmer beneath him.
While Lewis found his feet, Jake beat a temporary retreat to his horse, grabbing his pistol from the holster
“ If you’re such a brave fellow, you won’t need a gun,” said Lewis behind him. “A gentleman would keep this on an even footing.”
Not three minutes before, this same British agent was preparing to plug Jake’s vitals with his own bullet. Now he’d suddenly adopted the pose of an honorable gentlemen, calling for a fair fight.
“ All right,” said Jake. He rested the hand of his injured arm in his shirt at his waist and tossed away the pistol.
The instant he did so, a wide smile broke on Lewis’s face, and the pernicious British agent pulled a loaded gun from behind his cloak. His sprawl had taken him across the spot where it lay on the ground.
“ Too bad I’m not a gentleman,” gushed Lewis, lifting his weapon to fire.
He got it no more than halfway up before the two small balls from Jake’s beloved Segallas struck him square in the face, putting out both eyes and hastening him to Lucifer’s cavernous fires below.
“ Too bad indeed,” said Jake. “I might have left the pocket pistol in my belt if I thought you were.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Jake freed O’Connor by rolling the unconscious van Clynne off him, but then hastily signaled to the farmer not to revive his friend. The passage across the East River would be considerably easier if the good squire was left in his present dormant state. Besides, the Dutchman had earned a good night’s snooze.
Jake found himself somewhat pressed, between his bruises and bandages, to lift the large, snoring squire into the craft he found waiting for him at the river bank. But he was assisted on this score by several local Sons of Liberty, to whom he was much obliged. He was thankful, also, for their plan of depositing Lewis’s body in the ruins of the city house destroyed by an explosion. It was to be discovered amid the charred remains of the other “prisoners” — the generals would hopefully believe that he perished in the unfortunate fire. Other contingencies would be taken to otherwise assure Howe that his messenger and his message had been authentic, including false reports of where Jake and van Clynne had spent the night.
Even if Howe came to doubt the message was real, his famous inclination toward hesitation would at least gain the Continental Army more time to prepare a defense. It was not beyond the realm of possibility to imagine Sire William staying put in New York forever. He was a fine general once he was gotten to the battlefield; he was an excellent man for making plans as well. But the two parts of him did not fit so well together; he was forever worrying about preserving his strength, keeping England’s manhood alive, and indeed, may have been a bit soft on the rebels besides. All he had said to van Clynne, after all, had been said in earnest.
The reader familiar with the events of our great war so far will realize that nothing remains in stasis forever. But Howe’s next action lies beyond the small scope we have set ourselves here.
Jake, too, would inevitably find himself in a new adventure. His profession demanded it, and he contemplated what shape it might take as he and the unconscious van Clynne were rowed across the river, where a pair of fresh horses awaited their arrival. The wound in his shoulder had been cleaned and no longer hurt. His knee had been wrapped; though stiff, he could manage a half run. All things considered, the agent was in reasonable shape for the journey back to Schuyler.
The general would undoubtedly brag that he never actually considered abandoning Albany — and would turn and silently thank God that Jake had managed to return before the plans were put into action.
As the boat reached the shore, Jake shook van Clynne to wake him. The Dutchman continued to slumber. Finally, loath to leave him behind, but unable to wait any longer, Jake ordered the squire refreshed with a buck of river water.
“ What happened,” demanded van Clynne. “How did we get on the damned ocean again?”
“ I grew tired of your snores,” said Jake. “Come on, if you’re coming. We have many miles to cover tonight. I want to cross to American lines before dawn.”
“ I’ll have you know, sir, that I was not snoring,” said van Clynne indignantly as he disembarked from the boat. “A Dutchman is constitutionally unable to snore. It is an impossibility.”
“ Just as you’re unable to complain.”
“ Just so, just so.”
Van Clynne’s snores were to become a source of some annoyance in the days ahead, leading Jake to try
