Outside, the festivities were just getting under way as the old Liberty boys marched up the road with much shouting and threats to the king’s well-being. They had mounted their vat of tar on a small cart and pulled and pushed it along with such abandon that it slipped quite easily into the moat Smith and the British villain Peters had constructed.
“ That’s what you get, Rebels,” said Peters, emerging from a nearby bush and standing over the ditch.
“ We’ll run you out,” promised one of the few men who had not fallen into the water-filled hole. “And you, Smith — we’d hoped for better from you.”
Smith’s response was cut short by a tremendous explosion from inside the house.
“ My wife and children!” yelled the Tory, running for the building.
He was no doubt surprised to find his neighbors running right behind him, echoing his concerns. Jake certainly was, as watching from the shadows he saw the men help Smith put out the flames and call for his family in the shattered ruins. Suddenly politics had ceased to matter, and the Liberty boys even held off citing this catastrophe as an example of what came from associating with the British until Smith was tearfully reunited with his family.
The reader knows that most encounters between would-be Loyalist and ardent patriots have not ended with optimistic promises to help rebuild the former’s damaged house as this one did, but Jake could not help but smile as he slipped toward the road, realizing that the British recruiter — now helping douse the flames — would find no further succor here, and would indeed end the night by being placed under arrest.
Jake could also not help but smile at the cries of the one man left in the muddy pit, Claus van Clynne.
“ Help!” called van Clynne, who could not get a good enough footing in the slippery mud to pull himself out of the waist-high water. “I can’t swim. This water is deeper than the Atlantic. A rope or a hand before I drown would be greatly appreciated.”
Not wanting to blow his cover unless absolutely necessary, Jake crept silently to the edge of the moat and made sure the Dutchman was in no immediate danger. He then trotted back toward Blom’s house, so pleased by the events of the night that he found himself wishing Johanna were just a few years older.
Chapter Seven
“ So?”
Van Clynne shot Jake a puzzled glance from the back of his horse. “So what?”
“ How’d it go?”
“ How’d what go?”
“ You left your bed in the middle of the night. I assume you had a midnight rendezvous in town.”
“ I told you, I spent the entire night sleeping outside the door to our room. Why did you bar it against me?”
“ Oh, here now, Claus.” Jake gave him a wink. “I’ve heard stories about you Dutchmen. It’s not for nothing you wear your breeches loose, is it?”
“ I wear my breeches in very proper fashion,” protested van Clynne, stroking his beard for emphasis.
“ When you wear them. What, do you expect me to believe you spent the night swimming in the ocean?”
“ Well,” said van Clynne, stifling a sniffle, “I did have things to attend to.”
“ You’re a good man of business, squire,” chuckled Jake.
As difficult as it is to imagine van Clynne’s already rotund body puffing, it did seem to inflate under the stimulus of Jake’s flattery. Of course, that did not stop him from continuing his complaint that he had not had much sleep.
The detour around Ticonderoga had taken them too far to the west, and they were now traveling back toward Lake Champlain. Jake did not have a firm idea of where they were, surmising only that Crown Point — in British control — lay well to the southeast. Van Clynne evidently intended on bypassing the British frontier garrisons, much as he had tiptoed around the American stronghold at the foot of the lake. Not a horribly bad idea, all things considered.
As a precaution before leaving the Blom house this morning, Jake had burnt papers from Schuyler allowing him to travel unmolested through patriot lines; if stopped by a British patrol, they would raise many embarrassing questions. His only documents now were a list of Indian goods he had supposedly been sent by his father in Philadelphia to search for, and a letter from Governor Guy Carleton’s secretary vouching for his character. Both, of course, were forgeries, though Jake had some confidence no British soldiers would realize he’d never quite mastered his father’s habit of looping his o ’s at the top.
Having set out when it was still dark, they breakfasted shortly after the sun rose, stopping on a hill that looked out toward the lake, still a good two miles distant. They split a venison pasty prepared by Johanna. It was not an equitable split — Jake felt he was doing well to get a quarter of it.
As his experience in the ditch last night hinted, van Clynne’s reluctance to venture on the water was largely based on his fear of drowning. Nevertheless, it now appeared a wise decision, as Jake saw when he remounted his horse and looked toward Lake Champlain. A trio of gunboats were exchanging intermittent fire with two smaller craft. From the distance the battle appeared more in play than earnest. The geysers from the errant cannon fire looked like pimples suddenly erupting on the water’s clear face.
No wonder Flanagan had asked him to complete the mission within a week, a time span that was so short as to be nearly ludicrous. The British was already testing the American defenses; the invasion might come at any moment. This might even be its vanguard.
The boats shifted about with neither side gaining an advantage. Jake and van Clynne watched silently from the distance as the drama played out. They were so absorbed in the battle that they did not hear the approaching riders until they were almost upon them. When they did, the Dutchman merely shrugged, continuing to watch the battle. No doubt this was part of a strategy of nonchalance; Jake told himself once more that he could not have chosen a better guide.
And so the moment of truth stole up quietly, trotting forward in the form of a British lieutenant and his sergeant, who shouted roughly at them but then likewise turned their attentions to the battle in the distance.
“ Got the damned rebels on the run,” said the sergeant when the two small fleets parted.
Jake grunted in assent. Van Clynne said nothing.
“ You will honor me, gentlemen, with your papers,” said the lieutenant.
“ And what if I have no papers to treat you with?” said Van Clynne hostilely. “What will you do then?”
“ We’ll take you back as prisoners and spies,” answered the officer, drawing his sword from its scabbard.
A moment before, Jake could not have had a higher opinion of van Clynne, whose services as a guide had been invaluable. Now his estimation shifted one hundred and eighty degrees — the man was inviting not only suspicion, but death. Nonetheless, Jake remained outwardly calm. He could have his Styan in hand and fired before the officer had finished kicking his horse’s flanks for a charge. Then he’d reach down and test his new Hawkins on the sergeant.
“ In the days of Governor Stuyvesant, no traveler was ever ill-treated,” said van Clynne, reaching into his vest for the papers. “Even an Indian would get proper respect. A man’s word was his guarantee. Now, without a piece of foolscap signed by every monkey in the province, one can’t even journey three leagues. Every sneeze is regulated.”
The officer put his sword back in its sheath and nodded to the sergeant, who dismounted, snatched the wad of papers from van Clynne and handed them over. The lieutenant unfolded the several pages paying careful consideration to the signatures if not the rest of the words, before handing them back.