“ We’ll have to buy you some fresh clothes, if you’re to go to the ball,” said Marie, as she looked over her servant’s work.
“ Good. There’s some business I want to attend to in town,” said Jake.
Marie’s expression warned him from saying anything more revealing in front of the girl, as if that were really a danger. He finished his meal, and within a half hour had hitched Marie’s horse to her chaise, or cariole, as the French called it.
Marie’s estate was located only a few miles from the bank of the St. Lawrence directly to the south of Montreal, but to reach a place where they could board a bateau they had to travel in a large circle to the east, passing through three neighbor’s holdings. Each of these had been broken into smaller estates and farms; Marie waved and greeted each person they passed by name.
Marie did not own a house in the city, but as the journey was somewhat lengthy, she planned to spend the afternoon and change for the ball in the apartments of a friend.
After she got Jake outfitted, of course. She knew a tailor who could be pressed into quick service for a few extra coins. Jake could make do with his present breeches, but a coat of powder blue — now that would be just the thing to set off his shoulders, wouldn’t it?
“ And you’ll have to get a new hat!” she exclaimed.
“ But I like this hat. It’s been with me since Boston.”
“ Exactly.”
In the end, he did get a new hat, a large, round beaver with an upturned brim and golden feathers that made him look vaguely Spanish, or so said the tailor. The man muttered considerably at the amount of work he was expected to do to prepare the coat — luckily ordered by a customer who had the bad sense to die the day before he was to pick it up.
The blue jacket threatened to clash with Jake’s brown breeches, but the addition of a yellow brocaded vest turned the outfit into something quite modern, even racy for the colonies. Two watch chains signified the cutting edge of fashion, with their charms, ribbons and baubles hanging off and making a pleasing clang when Jake walked. The fact that their ends were fastened to pieces of metal instead of watches were besides the point.
If there was a woman in Montreal who could have resisted his charms when he arrived, she would be positively swooning now. A bit of lilac water, a good deal of scalding to his hair, which was then powdered and tied in a correct black bow beneath his hat — London itself would have fallen at the feet of this young swain.
Which Jake supposed, was a good enough cover for a spy. For who would suspect the man who stood out from the crowd and called attention to himself instead of lurking in the shadows? “Do I look like Jake Gibbs, the rebel provocateur?” he would say to anyone confronting him. “Well sir, I am not, though from what I have heard of the dog, I would be glad to meet him face-to-face, so that I could challenge him on the field of honor for insulting the king. Rumor has it he hung a rosary of potatoes around the king’s effigy, and I would very much like to avenge that dishonor.”
Hopefully, brave words would be enough. For Jake had come to town unarmed, except for his pocket pistol — a larger weapon would have drawn too much attention, most especially at the ball.
Jake tested his self-assurance as well as his disguise by striding through the Montreal marketplace not far from the wharf. The square teemed with soldiers, but they did not seem to pay him much mind; to them he was one more useless dandy.
Had they followed him, they might have changed their opinions. After making his parade — and adding several more plasters to his face to shore up his disguise — Jake walked to the printing shop of Fleury Mesplet. This was the same Mesplet who had come to Montreal with the Americans during the winter of 1775. A protege of Franklin, he had stayed after his countrymen had fled. Though he had not completely given up his allegiances, he was not, strictly speaking, an American spy.
Nor was he particularly happy to see Jake, whom he had known as a boy growing up in Philadelphia.
“ Not much of a disguise, then?”
“ If you’re trying to look like a man of fashion,” said the printer, himself very much the opposite, “you quite succeeded. But your chin gives you away. Everyone in town will know it’s you. You’re notorious.”
“ My chin’s too square?” Jake playfully took it in his hand and tried to see its reflection in the window. The window not being of glass, he was unsuccessful. “Perhaps another strategically-placed plaster.”
“ Leave by the back door,” said Mesplet. “I don’t want anyone to know you’re here.”
“ Now, now, relax, Fleury. Dr. Franklin send his regards.”
Not even this piece of flatter — invented for the occasion — could clam Mesplet, who took the unusual expedient of removing his sign from the front of the small, wooden building and then barring his door, as if he’d gone home for the day.
“ You’re worried about nothing,” said Jake. “Neither the barber nor the tailor made the slightest peep, and I stayed with them for two hours. Then I went to the market, showing my face at every booth. I could have lunched with a troop of soldiers without worrying. I was only here for a few weeks — no one even remembers me. It’s Quebec where I have to watch out.”
“ You won’t be so smug when Carleton meets you.”
“ Do you think these plasters are too obvious? They itch, and I’d rather do without them, frankly.”
“ Jake, what do you want? Half the town already suspects me of being a rebel.”
“ Aren’t you?”
“ I can’t help you.”
“ I don’t want help,” said Jake, picking up one of the handbills Mesplet had been working on and reading it. “ ‘Fire-arms made to your specification.’ Not bad. But you don’t need this dash her in firearms; it’s one word.”
“ What is it you want?”
“ When is Burgoyne starting his invasion?”
“ I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“ Fleury.” There was ever the slightest hint of physical injury in Jake’s voice.
“ Honestly, I don’t,” protested the printer, practically screaming. “Do you think they would tell me?”
“ They haven’t had you print amnesty proclamations or anything like that?”
“ Would they trust that to someone they suspect of being a rebel?”
“ Why did Carleton let you stay in Montreal?”
They put me in jail after Arnold fled. I was in Quebec for many months.”
Jake, unsure whether or not that was true, nodded solemnly anyway, as if in apology.
“ You should see Du Calvet,” said Mesplet. He uttered the name so low Jake could barely hear it.
“ So my old friend is still here then?”
Mesplet nodded. “He knows everything.”
If the printer had been alarmed by Jake’s visit, Du Calvet was infuriated. The risks involved in his coming north were incalculable, Du Calvet said; he endangered not merely himself, but many others in the city. For the tide had turned here, due in no small part to the poor behavior of the American occupation force in the winter of 1775-76; the French were now at best neutral toward the rebels.
“ Arnold was an ass,” added Du Calvet.
“ I quite agree,” said Jake, who blamed the commander for his friend Captain Thomas’s death. “But your spies have not done a good enough job informing General Schuyler. Otherwise I would not have had to come north.”
“ Perhaps the problem is that neither Schuyler nor Gates wants to believe what we tell them,” answered Du Calvet. “And perhaps Congress would do better not to keep changing commanders every time the wind blows.”
“ Since you don’t want me here, I assume you will help me leave.”
“ Gladly. I will have a wagon and papers waiting for you tonight.”
“ Tomorrow morning, on the Post Road south of Montreal. I am otherwise engaged this evening.”
“ Where?”
“ At the ball.”
“ You’re insane!”
“ Frankly, I think I dance rather well,” said Jake. “Have the wagon waiting.”