Assuming he set off right away.
'A horse, a horse!' he demanded. 'My land for a horse.'
What Shakespeare might have thought of this plagiarism will not be recorded here. A horse was produced nearly as quickly as the gold from one of the Dutchman's four purses. He thundered into the night, pushing the beast with more fire than Paul Revere displayed the night of his famous tour of the Boston suburbs.
Chapter Three
The cool night air and the rush of excitement at being summoned by General Washington invigorated Jake. He urged his horse southward with the enthusiasm of a boy released from school the day stripers start their river run. Hamilton was right beside him; the two men took advantage of the strong moon and clear night sky to thunder at full speed through the Hudson Valley hills. They reached the small settlement of Coxsackie, some twenty miles below Albany, in barely the time it would take to spell the name. The horses Hamilton had chosen were slender but sturdy beasts, identically colored — roan, with a single white daub at the left eye. Their muscled legs seemed capable of outrunning the wind.
As fast as the horses strode, Jake's mind went quicker. He began to fear what might lie ahead. It was not fear for himself. Until presented with a specific danger, Jake Gibbs was not the type to dwell on contingencies. But he realized that the Revolution had reached a tremulous point. Already, there were rumblings of discontent in the army, and the chronic shortage of funds was becoming acute. While delegations had been sent abroad to seek foreign support, European powers such as France would not back a cause that appeared headed for defeat. Another major setback — the loss of Boston or Philadelphia, or even Albany-could easily end all hope of assistance.
The area Jake and Hamilton rode through had been among the first visited by white men after the continent's fortunate discovery. The Dutch, including members of the van Clynne family, had made this land their own, exploring, farming, and trading for furs. It was still sparsely settled, however, for various reasons beginning with the geography. Hills and mountains rose up in jagged lines from the fiver; between them, all manner of ponds, creeks, and streams flowed in crazy-quilt patterns, now shimmering in the moonlight.
A few miles south of Coxsackie, a stream crossed the roadway to mark a perfect
on the darkened landscape, and it was here that the two Continental officers stopped to refresh their horses and stretch their own arms and legs.
The spot was idyllic, but the choice was unfortunate, for no sooner had the men slipped off the backs of their mounts than they were warned to stand away, with their hands held out at their sides.
'You will do what I say, or I will kill you,' said the voice sharply. 'Identify yourselves.'
Jake, his barely healed wounds smarting from the bumping they'd been treated to on the ride, stretched his arms stiffly and studied the shadows. A man with a gun was standing to their right.
'Excuse us, sir,' said Hamilton brightly. 'We are on our way to New Paltz.'
'No one travels at night on this road,' said the man. Tall, he cast a wedged shadow forward from the woods. His accent was odd, though his words were perfect English. The intonation reminded Jake of the Iroquois, among whom he had just spent several harrowing weeks.
'We are good patriots,' answered Hamilton. His service as an artillery officer had not taught him the caution that was second nature to Jake. This was secure patriot country, after all, and his assumption that the men must be must be part of the local militia was logical. 'I am Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton, and this is my friend, Colonel Gibbs.'
'A pair of colonels,' said another voice, this one to their left. There was no mistake about his accent — it was direct from one of London's cruder neighborhoods.
Jake quickly surveyed the nearby woods, looking for a safe line of retreat. His only weapon was his Segallas pocket pistol secreted at his belt. And Hamilton's larger officer's pistol was snug in the holster on the side of his saddle on his horse.
'If you've come to rob us,' said Jake, 'it will do you no good; we've got no money.'
'We're not interested in your money,' said the man with the Indian accent, who seemed to be the other's leader. He took a step from the shadows.
'Come now, friends, who is your commander?' said Hamilton, taking a step forward.
Jake groaned. 'Alexander,' he said as he put his hand to his vest, 'I believe my stomach is acting up.'
'As well it should,' said the leader. 'Bring up the light.'
A third and then a fourth man emerged from the shadows near the bushes, the last holding a candle lantern. Its flame was hardly enough for anyone to read by, but it gave Jake enough light to see there were no other reinforcements.
'Gentlemen,' he said, still feigning illness as he stepped forward, 'I must speak to you alone.'
'That's an old trick,' said the first man who had accosted them, standing to their right. The dim light illuminated white skin, but his forehead and cheek were tattooed with the unmistakable markings of an Iroquois warrior. His head was completely shaven, except for a scalp lock; tied with a large golden feather and brass ring, it hung down the side of his head to his shoulder. His clothes were a curious mixture of European and Indian dress. He wore a black, tailored jacket, but no shirt. A long red ceremonial slash cut a diagonal across his chest. His breeches were leather. In the darkness it was impossible to tell what, if anything, he wore on his feet.
Jake had come across painted whites before. Some called them changelings, men who had been adopted or stolen as youngsters to live among the Indians and converted to their ways. Others called them renegades, race traitors, and worse.
It was difficult to generalize about where such men's loyalties lay. But these had already given themselves away. Jake guessed the white Indian and his escorts must be messengers working between the British northern and southern frontiers; they were too far and too misplaced to be scouts.
'This is not a trick,' said Jake. He had used his feigned stomach ailment to put the Segallas into his hand, and now contemplated how best to use its store of bullets. 'The name I have used until now is false, a fiction to make travel among these rebels safer. I am Major Doctor Keen, assigned to General Bacon's intelligence service. I am on my way to our lines with valuable information.'
Keen's name was unfamiliar to them, but the mention of Black Clay was enough to give the quartet pause. Bacon ran the British intelligence service headquartered in New York City under General Howe. They were ostensibly if indirectly under his command.
He was also a man who must not be crossed in the least way. The Englishmen took a step backward, nearly as a group.
The tattooed man was not impressed. He spat on the ground.
'Egans, let us examine him,' suggested the Londoner. 'He should bear a token if he is a messenger.'
'I did not say I was a messenger,' answered Jake, working his way slowly toward the man with the candle lantern. He tried to use the same haughty tone Keen would have used. The spy felt safe in usurping Keen’s identity well as his voice, as he had watched the doctor sink to the bottom of the Mohawk River a week before.
'What are you then?' demanded Egans. Jake's guess about the man's origins was correct — he was an adopted member of the Oneida nation, among whom he had proven his worth and earned the name of a warrior some years before.
'I would not talk to one who pretends to be an Iroquois,' said Jake, as savagely as if his mother had been accused of being a whore. The white Indian at first did not react, but his anger quickly grew as Jake began to rattle off a series of curses in pidgin Huron. While these ill-pronounced words represented all he knew of the tongue, still they were of sufficient slander to accomplish Jake's purpose. No matter that the stress and accent were wrong; the hate for the Huron nation's eternal enemies, eaters of people and robbers of skins, was perfectly clear.
'I have spent many weeks among the Huron,' Jake told the Englishmen as they strained to hold back the infuriated Egans. He embellished his preposterous tale with a boldness that made it sound plausible. 'Working on an alliance. You will help take me to Howe.'
