Riflemen with muskets?
This lack of syntactical symmetry might mean many things, not least among them that the British had decided to handicap their most effective units with weapons ill-suited to their tactics.
Or perhaps not. The side door promptly opened to reveal Culper Junior, smiling and laughing. The rest of the company quickly joined in.
Sons of Liberty in disguise.
“
How do you like our Germans?” said Culper, clapping Jake on the back.
“
They’ve got the wrong guns.”
“
Still, they fooled you.” Culper’s amusement quickly passed when he saw that Jake wasn’t laughing. “I’m sorry for the trouble, but we have to take many precautions these days. There are Tory informers everywhere.”
“
I need your help intercepting a messenger,” said Jake. “He’s on his way to General Howe.”
“
Howe is on his brother’s flagship in the harbor.”
“
Exactly.” A look passed between them indicating there was considerably more to the story, but that it would not be made explicitly. “Can I borrow your German troop? We have to move quickly.”
“
They’re at your disposal,” said Culper. “As is my lieutenant, Mark Daltoons.”
Herstraw and his escort had passed the eight-mile stone south of Day’s Tavern on the King’s Bridge Road down to the city by the time one of Culper’s boys – the same who had led Jake to his “trap” – spotted them. That left precious little time to arrange the diversion at McGowan’s Pass, less than a mile away.
It had been at McGowan’s Pass the previous September that a stout group of American patriots held off Clinton’s advance guard, keeping them at bay while Washington and Putnam regrouped at the Harlem Heights above. The action here this afternoon was considerably less severe, but just as hotly contested – the British messenger and his escort, along with some sentries routinely posted to the area, found themselves suddenly under heavy bombardment.
The first egg hit Herstraw square in the forehead. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, it was filled with a putrid, year-old apple, half-bitten, incidentally, by one of the attacking troops, none of whom was over ten years old.
Three dozen young lads held the woods above the ravine, raining all manner of vegetable debris on the helpless redcoats. A brilliantly coordinated hammer and anvil movement had left the troop trapped in the defile. Just as the first egg was lobbed, the hammer was launched – a large cart of manure was dumped over the side of the hill behind the troop, cutting off retreat. And then the anvil: at the head of the column, two large and odiferous carcasses of former cows were deposited on signal from a trapeze like device in the trees.
The assault being made by children, the British troops found themselves frustrated to the extreme. The dared not fire, for fear of hitting one of the urchins and causing a major incident; yet they could not advance in the face of what was a rather ferocious stream of rancid fruit and vegetables, together with some rocks and miscellaneous debris.
The British formed a defensive perimeter as best they could, and once their assailants’ ammunition ran low, dispatched a party to rout out the young rebels. The boys led those on a merry chase, avoiding capture yet staying close enough to entice the soldiers onward. In this way, the messenger was delay nearly an hour until close to one p.m., and his guard force much depleted.
Herstraw was heard to complain as they marched south that never had he witnessed such a poor state of affairs as that experienced over the past few days. The colonials were harassing the whole countryside. Common thieves, such as the scoundrels who stole all of Roelff’s plate and silver before trying to set the inn on fire the night before, ran rampant. Children were able to make fools of a company of handpicked grenadiers. Perhaps, said Herstraw, the British were not preordained to win this war as he had earlier believed.
This brought strenuous objection from the captain, and the two officers were still arguing when they were met in the road by a small group of Hessians up from the harbor. Had it not been for this disagreement, the captain might not have left Herstraw; like most other British soldiers, he had no respect for the Germans, though their army was as professional as his. But his orders were only to conduct the messenger into the city, and here they were standing at the intersection of Broad and George streets, well within the precincts of the north ward. If the truth be told, Herstraw had been quite a pain the whole way; the captain was only too glad to be rid of him. With no other ceremony, he promptly turned his men around and marched northwards to reassemble his force.
Herstraw was impressed that Howe had sent out another guard, even if it were composed of foreigners. The only English speaker was a young man of thin build who hardly looked old enough to shave. Nonetheless, the young man wore the markings of a sergeant; if the promotion was due to exploits on the battlefield instead of experience, well, so much the better. The fact that the sergeant was on horseback also did not arouse suspicion, but their path through the city – down Wall and then over Queen, heading away from the fort – did.
“
The general has set up auxiliary headquarter,” explained the sergeant. He had an apologetic tone in his voice. “It has to do, well, you know of Mrs. Loring, I assume.”
Herstraw showed great restraint in not asking any further questions, and the sergeant displayed equal discretion in not volunteering further information. In fact, such discretion might be thought unparalleled – provided, of course, that the man were truly what he claimed he was. But if such were the case, he would never had conducted Herstraw to Nicoll’s mansion, which had been temporarily appropriated by the Sons of Liberty under Jake’s direction a half hour before.
Nicoll was a Tory who had fled the city some months before the British invasion and hadn’t yet found the chance to return. The house had a good view of the east ward and the harbor. The officers from one of the guard companies who occupied it had just so happened to be called out on a special assignment a few moments before Jake’s arrival.
Well, perhaps this wasn’t entirely a coincidence, since they had been called out to look specifically for Mr. Gibbs, who was now suspected of having been involved in the firing of New York the previous fall. At least that was what the warrant claimed. Considering that the warrant also described Mr. Gibbs as being five-feet-two, with black hair and brown eyes and well past his prime, perhaps the warrant should not be fully believed.
In any event, the front room of the mansion was now under the control of a lieutenant and his aide. (The lieutenant bore a remarkable resemblance to Culper Junior’s own chief lieutenant, Mark Daltoons, and the aide, if not for the mustache, looked somewhat like the real Jake Gibbs.) Herstraw was marched before them and presented by the sergeant, who snapped to attention with all the ceremony of a guard presiding at the king’s palace.
“
Very good, Sergeant, that will do,” said the lieutenant as his aide inconspicuously took up a position behind the messenger. “Mr. William Herstraw, I presume. Do you have identification?”
Herstraw took out his coin and handed it to the lieutenant, who waved it to his aide. The assistant plucked the coin from the messenger’s hand and slid it into his pocket.
“
I am given to understand you have a message for the general,” said the lieutenant. His accent made him sound as if he had come from Westminster not a week before – a remarkable achievement for Daltoons, who had never been further east than Brooklyn.
The elaborate fiction he and Jake had constructed here was aimed not at retrieving the bullet – that could be done as soon as Daltoons leaned forward, pressing the level attached to the pistol wired beneath the desk. The Sons hoped to follow Herstraw through the city after he made his delivery, thereby gathering hints about the British messenger network. Jake had let himself be persuaded on this point by Culper Junior, but in truth had some doubts about whether Herstraw would agree to hand over the bullet without a struggle.
“
My orders are to see the general in person,” said the messenger.
“
I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” answered the lieutenant. “That is against procedure.”
“
Nevertheless, those are my orders. I’ll wait until he’s free, if that’s a problem.”
“
That would be a very long time,” said the mustachioed aide, who had his pocket pistol loaded out of sight up his sleeve.
“
General Burgoyne gave the order to me directly, and I am honor bound to carry it out,” said Herstraw, turning to face the aide. “Excuse me, but have we met?”
“
I don’t believe so.”
“
Why do you wear a mustache?”
The aid – we all know it’s Jake, don’t we? – feigned embarrassment before answering.
“
It’s to hide a scar I received. My upper lip was cut at Lexington.”
“
Lexington? Whom did you serve under?”
“
I was serving under the lieutenant here.”
“
Impossible. His unit was not in Boston at the time.” Herstraw rose and took a step back as recognition flooded into his eyes. “I know you!”
-Chapter Thirty-one-
Wherein, Jake finds himself pursued through the streets of New York.
I
t’s nice to
be recognized , but only if recognition brings with it some token of esteem or affection. The only thing displayed by the spy was a pistol, which he promptly leveled at Jake’s chest. This gained him a temporary advantage, allowing him to ease back toward the door.
His retreat removed him from the aim of Daltoon’s rigged pistol. But neither Jake nor Daltoons was too concerned, since the sergeant and his Hessians were standing outside the door, prepared for this contingency. In fact, as Herstraw reached for the door handle, Daltoons dove to the floor, out of the line of fire – the ersatz Hessians had orders to shoot if the door was opened without a signal from Jake.
The maneuver was premature. The contingent of British officers roused from the building earlier had chosen at this moment to return with a company of their men. Angry at having been sent on a wild goose chase, the officers were surprised to see their posts taken up by Hessians, and more surprised still when one of them shot at them. A general cry and alarm went up, a shout, a shot, a great number of alarms – Chaos, the great, disorganized goddess of riot and confusion, had arrived on the scene.
And not a moment too soon. Jake leapt forward, throwing his body into Herstraw’s as the British messenger ducked in the doorway. Herstraw’s bullet missed him as they crashed to the floor. Jake lost his pocket pistol in the tumble and had to settle for a few hard strokes with his fist against Herstraw’s chin. The British messenger responded with a surprisingly robust chop to Jake’s kidneys, followed by an even more painful smash with his knee to the American’s stomach.
Jake rolled away. Herstraw made the mistake of interpreting his retreat as surrender, rising to his knees and grabbing for the Segallas. But as his fingers touched the handle of the small gun, his insides suddenly burned with an intense, unquenchable fire. Jake’s elk-handled knife sliced through the tender flap of skin just under the edge of his rib cage and danced through his arteries and organs in a grim minuet of death, draining his strength. In the next moment, it drained his life as well – Jake reached forward and perforated Herstraw’s throat, blood spilling across the floor in a vicious spurt.
Daltoons, meanwhile, jumped to his feet and secured the door against the maelstrom outside. Jake took his Segallas back from the dead man, grabbed the silver bullet from Herstraw’s boot and followed Daltoons to the window.
The gunfire outside the room suddenly stopped, and the two men dove through the glass just as the British soldiers crashed through the door.
Aboard Howe’s flagship, van Clynne and the general had conceded that, as a rule, the hops added to British beer left something to be desired. Wilder breeds would bring more exotic flavors, van Clynne maintained, and the general could find little to argue with there. In fact, the general was starting to show signs that he would find little to argue with anywhere today. His normally reticent tongue had been loosened by the large meal and the equally plentiful drink, and he had begun to find his guest, at first invited solely for the purpose of offering him some company on an otherwise dull morning before his staff meeting, stimulating and interesting. Though Dutch, this van Clynne displayed a pleasing etiquette that complimented his wide-ranging knowledge. He seemed well-acquainted with even the most minute piece of history connected with the province, Dutch especially. He also appreciated the vast difficulties the general had with the administration of his task.
The colonists were a strange bunch, both men agreed. Here the general and his brother Lord Richard had shown great leniency, all the patience of overindulgent fathers, and yet their many entreaties had been scorned. “I show mercy in the Jerseys,” said Howe, “and I am repaid with Trenton! Imagine, attacking on Christmas Day!”
“
Scandalous!” agreed his guest.
Howe had rarely seen such a facile grasp of the facts and situation, nor felt such sympathy with a man he had just met. In short, van Clynne was just the sort he wished to have on his staff as a civilian assistant, and the general was getting around to asking if he would consider such a position, when he realized, somewhat to his chagrin, that he had yet to receive the message van Clynne had come to deliver.