Curiosity is an extreme motivator for a man in the spying profession, where naturally the mind tweaks itself toward inquiry. True, such a trait has its drawbacks, but for an agent on special services it is the engine of innumerable achievements. So it should not be surprising that Jake, having escaped discovery by the narrowest of margins, instantly decided to double the odds by following the two British officials and seeing what they might be up to. He bowed to his dancing partners, all seven of them, and excused himself, holding his hand to his stomach as if overcome by a sudden ailment. Then he made for the door as if he had taken a double dose of cathartic.
His quick exit brought him nose-to-back with General Burgoyne, who had stopped to confer with some aides near the door. Jake slipped off to the side as the general first gently criticized the men for interrupting, and then said, reluctantly, that he would go up with the governor and see what this new message was about.
The stairs were unguarded. Jake waited for the general and his minions to ascend and go down the hallway. He was after them in a flash, taking three steps at a time, checking for his pocket pistol as he climbed. Snug in his waistband, it was primed and ready; he had only to flick the safety and fire.
It was purely a weapon of last resort, since using it would draw immediate attention to himself. His weapon of first resort consisted of all his senses — hearing in particular, which led him down the hall to the secretary’s room, just outside the governor’s office. The interior chamber was closed, but even the thick door could not muffle Carleton’s loud voice as he upbraided Burgoyne.
Not upbraided, exactly; more like complained against the general’s libels and the willingness of Lord Germain to hear them.
“ My resignation is on its way to that coward Germain as we speak,” said Carleton.
“ Intemperate words,” said Gentleman Johnny. “Lord Germain enjoys the full confidence of the king.”
“ He has not changed his stripe.”
The argument continued, but Jake’s eavesdropping did not — someone was approaching down a hallway. Jake looked quickly for a hiding place, but found nothing more suitable than the underside of a large desk as an officer and a man dressed in civilian clothes entered.
“ Wait, while I get the governor,” the officer told the man, going in the meantime to the window and pulling the drapes closed. The window was right next to the desk — Jake was close enough to smell the grease polish on the officer’s boots.
“ My orders are to give the letter to the general, not the governor.”
“ The governor is still in charge,” said the officer testily. “He is waiting with the general.” He turned sharply on his heel and knocked on the adjacent office door before entering.”
Jake flattened himself beneath the desk while the messenger paced a few feet away. A canteen hung from a leather sling at his side: undoubtedly that contained whatever he’d come to deliver. But even as Jake considered the wild thought of snatching it and dashing for the patriot lines, the door to the office was reopened and the man summoned inside.
Jake got up and snuck next to the chamber to hear what was going on. Burgoyne apparently took the fact that the message was to be delivered to him personally as a veiled insult to his choice of staff officers. Carleton, for his part, was annoyed that Burgoyne and not he was the recipient. The general ripped open the letter and read it aloud, both as a feigned courtesy to Carleton and a dramatic display of trust in his subordinates.
Burgoyne’s voice betrayed some regret as he proceeded. How had made it clear that he had no use for his plans to invade New York, and indicated that he would not bother to support the action with his troops.
Jake had little time to consider the strategic import of this happy news — Burgoyne exploded in fury and led the whole mess of them, governor, messenger, and assorted hangers-on, into the secretary’s room, in search of something to write on. Jake nearly lost his eye patch to a splinter in the floorboard as he dove back beneath the desk.
“ You will deliver my message to Howe himself,” Burgoyne declared as he entered.
“ Begging your pardon, General, but that is explicitly against protocol. We have an elaborate procedure. I’ve never met Sir William; I have a staff officers I deal with, who in turn deals with another officers.”
“ If I’m good enough to be met personally, Howe is no better,” said Burgoyne. He reached over the top of the desk, hovering less than eighteen inches from Jake, and quickly wrote a note. “He’s to carry on with the offensive the way I mapped it out. The orders from England are quite explicit, even if they are worded to avoid offending his delicate sensibilities.”
Sir, again I must protest. For matters of security, I should not know what the message contains. This way, I can dispose of it, and honestly answer — “
“ What is your name and rank?”
“ Captain William Herstraw, sir.”
“ Are you always in the habit of telling your superiors their business?”
“ No, sir.”
While Burgoyne was defending his bruised ego, the other officers were shifting nervously around the room. Jakes ribs did their own shifting, trying to stifle the outraged squeaks his lungs were emitting in protest of being contorted to fit his chest beneath the desk well.
Burgoyne finished his message and straightened. Jake, sensing the session would end soon and he could escape, began to feel relief — until the general sat on the edge of the desk. The wood groaned with the weight and pressed down into the spy’s back. “Now I will tell you a bit of your business,” the general said to the messenger. “Any simpleton, even a rebel, will search your canteen for a message. You need something a bit more secretive, and easily disposed.”
“I don’t intend on being searched,” replied Haverstraw. “I travel among the rebels as a poor yeoman farmer and am never suspected.”
“Our own messengers use silver bullets,” said Carleton, with a note in his voice that meant he wanted this whole business concluded. “Captain Clark, can you prepare one for Captain Haverstraw?”
Clark — the same Clark you’re thing of, if you’re thinking he’s Marie’s — didn’t answer. Instead he walked towards the desk.
The same desk you’re thinking of, if you’re thinking of Jake’s. Jake pressed in deeper and tried to conjure some excuse, lame as it might be, as Clark approached.
Fortunately, Clark did not come around to the back of the desk, where he might have had occasion to glance down and see an unaccounted-for leg. Instead he reached over the side and pulled the drawer open — and in the process whacked Jake on the side of his skull.
Which would not have been so bad, had Jake’s wig not gone flying with the friction of the drawer.
A popular manufacturer in France once sewed small strings on his wigs. These were meant to be tied to the collar or the back of the neck, so the wig could easily be retrieved if knocked loose by the wind or some other force of nature. Surely such a device would have been a godsend for Jake at that moment. The wig was lying on the floor, positively due for discovery once the drawer was closed.
Jake strained his fingers from their sockets, grabbing at the ribbon that tied the ponytail. Meanwhile, Clark rummaged through the shallow drawer, looking for a sharp knife to open the silver ball with. He leaned harder and harder on the desk, pressing Jake’s side.
“ We use them to communicate with Sir Johnson and his Indians,” Clark said. “I only need a thin blade.”
Jake felt like volunteering his own pocketknife. Clark shook the drawer and tried opening it farther — scraping against Jake’s skull.
“ Damn drawer is always sticking. I have a penknife in here somewhere.”
By some compression of the spine that would no doubt strike an anatomist as impossible, Jake managed to duck his head down as Clark struggled with the drawer. The same motion, fortunately, gave him a better grip on the wig’s ribbon.