“ I doubt that, sir.”
“ No, it’s true. He could have. Burgoyne as well. He’s quite capable of such treachery. All of these Americans are. Show them kindness, and this is how they repay you.”
Manley nodded, understanding what was meant perfectly. For in such a way are orders for gruesome assassinations given, veiled with words of what others might have done. It would be against the nature of things to kill a gentleman, but a treacherous snake who did not observe the proprieties of life — such a fellow was not a gentleman, and might be disposed of without prejudice.
“ I have no doubt he will escape the patrols,” said Carlton. “He did so in Quebec, and that was in broad daylight. They will not be mounted long in any event, and will not follow with the discipline necessary even if they are lucky enough to catch a whiff of his trail.”
“ I would think a man like that would have to be followed wherever he went.”
Carleton nodded. The reader will wonder at the delicacy of the British commanders, so careful to skirt the truth of what they were saying. But officially the Secret Department did not even exist, and it was imperative that certain forms be kept — for otherwise, how was a true British gentleman like Governor Carleton to sleep at night?
“ You know this fellow Herstraw, the messenger from New York?” Carleton asked.
“ No, sir.”
There was the slightest bit of disdain in Manley’s voice. Messengers were ordinarily not part of the department’s ranks, and even those who ventured far through enemy lines such as Herstraw were looked down upon as mere errand boys, no matter how difficult their jobs might be.
“ He seemed competent enough,” Carleton said. “To have come all this way from New York — it could not have been an easy journey.”
“ It is a long journey,” allowed Manley.
The governor smiled at the grudging admission. “I assume that he will return to General How. Gibbs undoubtedly overheard us talking and will be on his trail. I would not want him overtaken.”
Manley nodded.
“ If you have occasion to find Herstraw before Gibbs, you will see that he carries a coded coin as an identifier,” said the governor. “Captain Clark is familiar with the path he will take; knowing it should allow you to track our Mr. Gibbs more easily. The hunter becoming the prey, as it were.”
Manley nodded.
Carleton returned to his desk, standing over it for a moment. It is only fair to admit that he felt the slightest hesitation before sealing his order for Jake’s death. Lurking in his soul was the shadow of the initial affection that had attracted him toward the able young man years before in London, the emotion of father toward son. If circumstances had been different, he would have proved an affectionate and powerful mentor.
But the governor had not achieved his position in life without mastering his emotions. He reached inside his waistband and produced the key to the bottom desk drawer. Without further ceremony he unlocked it, removing a long, narrow silver box. As second key was retrieved from his watch pocket, and the box was opened to reveal a dagger as slender in proportions as Manley’s body. The tempered blade shone even in the study’s dim light, and as the governor reached across to hand it to his minion, the red jewel at the end of the hilt glowed like a flame stolen from the fires of hell. And so was a mission of the Secret Department commissioned, the knife an identifier to any officer of sufficient rank and position to realize such a thing as the department existed. The blade was not, as some writers have suggested, a mark that assassination had been ordered — but then, the mistake is understandable, since so many of their missions had that as their only goal.
Carleton returned the silver box to the bottom drawer. Reaching deeper, he retrieved a small bottle of brandy and two silver snifters. He poured out two small portions — this personal addendum to the ceremony that the authorized mission was followed only by the governor, as far as Manley knew.
Should he succeed or should he fail, only the two men in this room would ever know of the assignment. Once sent on his way, Manley would let nothing stop him, not even a command from the king or Sir Henry Clay Bacon, who as the ranking officer of the branch in America would be presumed to be acting on the king’s behalf. But not even the king nor Bacon could be given details of the mission, and as the first was across the ocean and the second was several hundred miles away in New York, their intervention was more than unlikely.
Manley folded himself forward to take the silver cup, sealing Jake Gibb’s fate — and perhaps his own.
“ To Jake Gibbs,” said Carleton, raising his drink.
“ Yes.” Manley smiled. “To his good health.
Chapter Twelve
“ Monsieur, impossible!”
“ Certainly you can,” said Jake. He had the cart’s horse by the bit, and despite the animal’s protests, had no intention of letting go until his owner agreed to take him south. “You just told me you’re going that way.”
“ Oui,” said the man, a French farmer traveling with his charette, or wagon, to a small town several miles south of Fort St. John. “But it is a long way and difficult, and I could not possibly carry a passenger.”
“ There’s plenty of room. Your cart is empty.”
“ Monsieur, s’il vous plait.”
Jake sighed and reached into his money purse for a guinea. He tossed it to the farmer, then let go of the horse and strode to the back of the cart to board. The farmer smiled and made a clicking noise to get the horse going, barely waiting for Jake to get in.
It had been a long night. After abandoning the canoe downriver, Jake had walked across several fields and through a small woods before finding a road. With only the hazy light of the moon to guide him, he had stumbled toward the Richelieu River, which lay fifteen or sixteen miles as the crow flies east from Montreal. Jake was hardly a crow, and though he walked as quickly as he could and took the main road as much as he dared, he did not get very far very fast. The area was swampy and not heavily populated; he couldn’t even find a horse to steal along the way. AS the sun came up he was still several miles from Chambly; dead tired, he considered the farmer’s sudden appearance as an act of God.
The farmer soon had his horse at near-gallop, despite the mud and rocks that made up the road. Jake propped his coat beneath his head and tried to sleep, but the ride was too bumpy and he was too alert with the sense of danger.
Soldiers were encamped all along the route; it seemed as if the entire population of England and Germany had come across the Atlantic to deal with the rebellious colonies. Having approached Montreal from the west, Jake had not fully appreciated the enemy’s strength until now, when he was in the middle of it.
Fortunately, most of the sentries were either still sleeping or lackadaisical; word of the escaped American spy would not reach them for several hours. They let the farmer and his homemade cart pass without challenge.
Jake’s original mission was to get south with his information about the planned invasion. But he now had a second goal — apprehending the British messenger. Intercepting a letter from Burgoyne would lessen the chances the offensive would succeed; Burgoyne had as much as said so.
The messenger was on his way to an inn near Fort Hubbardton, had a head start, and was on horseback. The only way to catch up was to find transportation on Lake Champlain, but that was not going to be an easy matter. As the battle he had witnessed on the way north attested, the British had already had control of much of the northern reaches of the waterway.
Perhaps he could find a very small boat farther south that would escape detection. Of some consolation was the fact that Herstraw — if he played the role of a poor farmer, as he told Burgoyne — would probably not go on the lake himself, though he would stick to the roads along it, where he could count on finding British assistance if needed. So at least Jake would have a strong notion of where to find him before Bull’s head.