In the meantime, Marie escaped quietly to her friend’s apartment. Her fellow French Canadians held her in high enough esteem that the British could not move against her without raising the ire of the populace; as long as she protested ignorance and kept to herself for a month or two, she knew she would escape with no more serious damage than the loss of her beau, Captain Clark. She was angry with Jake for having exposed her, yet at the same time worried greatly about his fate.
General Burgoyne, in his offhanded and pompous way, dismissed the rebel as inconsequential. “A mere spy will not have any effect on my plans,” said Gentleman Johnny, whose reputation as an overconfident horse’s body part had proven years before to everyone’s satisfaction except Lord North’s, who as head of His Majesty’s government had the only opinion that counted. “I have half a mind to write a letter to Washington himself, detailing my plans,” Burgoyne told Carleton when the first patrols reported that they could not find Jake. “Let these backwoodsmen try and stop me; I intend on dining in Schuyler’s mansion in Albany before Christmas.”
Some portion of the general’s bluster was undoubtedly for show, however, as he gave orders for the invasion force to accelerate its preparations. He spent the rest of the night dictating commands for his troops, determined to launch the first phase of his attack with the week. If he had never counted on strategic surprise in the first place, still he pushed his men to seize the tactical initiative, before the American army could fully mobilize against him.
Governor Carleton did not even pretend to take Jake Gibbs lightly. In fact, the governor could be forgiven if he interpreted Gibb’s reappearance in Canada as little less than a personal affront. The anger he felt could not be placed adequately into words. Nor was it satisfied by the prolonged pounding he treated his desktop to.
And so the meeting that took place in the governor’s chambers around three a.m. should come as no surprise. Carleton sat at his desk, grim; the lateness of the hour wore deeply on his face, fatigue having ingrained lines on his cheeks and brows. Ordinarily a calm and even mild man, Carleton was quite beside himself with rage. His lone visitor stood a few feet away, waiting for his orders as the governor did his best to bring his emotions back under control so he could speak. Finally, he found his voice.
“
I have sent nearly a hundred men, and Burgoyne, despite his bluster, has his own troops on alert. But he is a wily man, this Gibbs. Half the army could look for him, and he would find a way to sneak through their ranks.”
The man across the room from the governor nodded. Carleton frowned, then continued, his tone still strained.
He stole my wig, you know. He had the audacity to take my wig and escape after he’d given his word as a British gentleman not to leave house arrest. But of course, he no longer considers himself a British gentleman. My favorite wig – I’d bought it from Gladders in London.
Though he knew well where Gladders was and even felt some sympathy for the governor – the affront to his honor by a man he’d treated as his son made the governor look foolish – Carleton’s visitor did not speak. He merely shifted his legs slightly as his large blue eyes calmly searched his commander. These eyes were twice the size normally apportioned for such a face, as set deep into the skull, so that he had the appearance of a wild owl, recording everything, scanning for his prey.
Major Christopher Manly had performed many tasks for the governor over the past six months, though none had begun with an interview such as this. He was confident, however, that the end result would be entirely the same.
Manly had a truck full of talents, but his physical appearance belied his skills and strength. He was well over six and a half feet tall, standing a good head and shoulders above most every other man in the army. His body weight was not similarly portioned: his arms and legs were as thin as the branches on a year-old birch tree, and a girl would blush to have a waist as thin as his. His height made him appear awkward when he walked or ran, though his long strides actually made him fleet and he’d learned to use the leverage inherent in his limbs to great advantage in a fight. He was another breed of man on a horse; so light and yet so sinewy and pliant that he seemed to blend with the animal; the pair became a different being altogether.
But as far as the British army was concerned, Major Manley’s most attractive trait was his willingness to do whatever his commander asked – no, not asked, but hinted. For the major was a member of His Majesty’s Secret Department, an agent of the shadowy brigade assigned specifically to Governor Carleton to carry out whatever tasks were too delicate for other branches to handle. If he appeared awkward at rest – even standing erect he was an unlikely collection of limbs put together by a sculptor in jest – he was a fluid and efficient as a Caribbean hurricane once set in motion, and twice as deadly.
“
Burgoyne may be right about the rebels,” continued Carleton after a new round of pounding on the desk finally drained his anger. “They are quite sharp when they face old men as they did taking Ticonderoga, but put a real army together and they fall back, as they did last fall. Still, he is a fool for overestimating his own abilities and the loyalty of these people. The Canadians – I’m boring you Major, am I not?”
“
You never bore me, Governor.”
Carleton smiled. He had that rare ability in a British commander to know flattery when he heard it – and to turn away from it.
“
Jake Gibbs is a deadly fellow. He helped stir up the populace against me while he worked at my right hand, and he scouted the Canadian defenses most effectively.”
“
If his work at Quebec is any indication,” said Manley dryly, “I should think you’d be happy to have him spying about.”
“
The Americans attacked out of desperation,” answered Carleton, aware that his great victory two years before was due partly to luck. “No, Gibbs is quite something. I’d heard rumors that he was killed; obviously they were wishful thinking.” Carleton rose from his desk and began pacing through the room. “He could have assassinated me tonight.”
“
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-
Wherein, Jake makes the timely acquaintance of a Black Minqua half-breed.
“
M
onsieur, 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.