"Rose, I guarantee that we will not allow them to attack the chain," Jake told her, his voice as sincere as it had ever been in his life. "But you must do nothing now. Trust me when I tell you that I will deal with the Tories sharply and completely. In the meantime, go about your business as if nothing has happened. It is imperative that they have no warning before our forces surprise them."
There was a look in his eye that no poet could describe, unless that poet were inspired by the muse Freedom herself. Determination was not the half of it; his soul had opened up, and his will flooded into the girl's. There was no chance for her to disobey his words.
But let us not get too fancy describing eye contact. Suffice to say that Rose nodded weakly. Jake gave her flushed cheek a kiss to seal the matter, then put on his best Tory face and walked around the side of the barn to attend the meeting.
As gruff and obnoxious as any noncommissioned officer in the regular army, Sergeant Lewis greeted Jake's story of his recruitment and subsequent ambush with a sneering grunt.
"I've got business to attend to. Captain Busch can sort yourself out when he arrives," said the sergeant, turning to the horses.
This would have been fine with Jake, except that the other Tories immediately took their cue from his contempt. The hostility escalated as their leading questions turned to outright accusations.
"I think I've seen you before," said a tallish bald fellow, twisting his words so that it sounded as if he'd spied Jake murdering a child.
"Where would that be?" countered the disguised patriot.
Instead of answering immediately, the man walked to the center of the barn and picked a sword off the table.
"In New York, at a rally for Washington," said the Tory ranger, who pretended to test the blade's sharpness with his finger.
"You're mistaken," said Jake. He folded his arms in feigned disgust. The inquisition was picked up by a fellow nearly as tall as he was, and half again as wide, who came and stood next to him, hands on his hips.
"Your story of being challenged by rebels smells a few days old," said the man. Like most of the others, he wore a dark green coat — the official uniform of a Loyalist ranger. "Where is Captain Busch if it is true?"
"Captain Busch met his corporal. He told me to come on alone," said Jake. "I have enough sense to follow orders."
"He has a rebel stink about him, I'll warrant that," said a third irregular. "Someone with a name of Smith — as likely as finding a pig wearing a dress."
"Your wife speaks ill of you as well," Jake said.
Finally an answer that was well received by all but the subject of the rebuttal.
"I was told that this was a competent group," added Jake boastfully, "but I think the rebels would laugh the moment they saw your ill-fitting coats. Or is laughter your weapon of choice?"
"Best watch your manners," said an older man in the audience. "You're new here. A few of us are veterans of the war with the French and our bravery is well proved."
"In that war, certainly," said Jake, who tempered his mocking tone. "But with respect, we're no longer fighting dance masters; we're after real game."
"And you're here to show us the way, are you?"
"I've come just in time. What have you done till now? Upset a hen house or two?"
"Wasn't it our information that set the raid on Peekskill?" said the older man cheerfully. "And who stole Old Put's own fodder from under his nose three times last month? If his troops are boiling their shoes for meat, it's us he has to thank."
"We could beat the rebels entirely on our own," said another. "We don't need the Dependence or any other help."
"What's the Dependence?"
"A fire-breathing dragon. To the rebels at least."
The group laughed even more heartily than before. No one offered further information, and Jake thought it best not to press. The Dependence must be a British vessel that supported the Tories on their raids.
The talk proceeded in like manner until after 4 a.m., with Jake pretending to doubt the rangers' abilities so he could gather information from their boasts. The men gradually warmed to him, and his manner likewise eased. To hear them tell it, they were a constant threat to the Americans, a half-victory away from routing Putnam's troops from the hills. While their claims were no doubt exaggerated, Jake had good reason to believe they had some level of competence, based on what he had seen of Busch and Evans. They were at least well armed: an assortment of weapons and cartridge boxes were piled along two tables at the center of the barn, well polished and waiting.
As time passed, the men began to grow somewhat anxious about their leader. Their speculation was studded with bits of information about Busch and his background, adding to the portrait Jake already had received. Here was a man, though not as well born or widely known, to rival the infamous Colonel Robinson.
Patriotic readers familiar with Dutchess and Westchester counties in New York will remember Robinson as having been born in the shadow of Sugarloaf Mountain in Philipstown. Denying his free birthright, he raised his own regiment for the British; the once-respected Tory loomed large in the imaginations of men on both sides of the war, and his defection to the lower party did more damage to the American forces than his troops.
Busch, too, had grown up in the area and was well known among the inhabitants of the riverside farms. His father owned considerable acreage, but it was unclear from the gossip exactly how much or where. The captain was single, and in his early twenties as Jake already had surmised; a youthful tragedy had claimed his sister's life and his mother had died soon afterwards. Many of the local inhabitants did not yet realize where his loyalties lay, and he had not bothered to enlighten them, knowing that ambiguity would aid his activities.
A major assault was planned within the next day or so, but whether or not it involved the chain Jake could not tell and dared not directly ask. The Tories made his job of spying simple with loose tongues and eager curiosity, but Busch apparently was very guarded with information about their pending mission; not even Sergeant Lewis, who was presently in charge, could answer the men's questions about it.
When Busch finally entered the barn, it was nearly dawn. He had lost his hat; his face was worn with fatigue and the corners of his eyes showed the first marks of age, worry tearing at his brow. But there are certain men upon whom Care bestows nobility, and Busch was one of them; he walked into the barn with such a forceful bearing that even Jake found himself jumping to attention.
"Johnson missed the rendezvous," he announced curtly. "Something has happened to him and the escort sent to meet him. Caleb and I were attacked by a second rebel force, this time militia."
Busch scanned the barn until his eyes rested on Jake. He gave him a quizzical look, and for a moment Jake worried that the Tory commander had somehow discerned he was responsible for Johnson's death.
"I am afraid Caleb has been captured," Busch said finally. He gave Jake a nod, and the patriot realized Busch was remonstrating silently with himself for not taking his brave new recruit along on the second leg of his night's mission. "The rebels were hot on our heels and I only just escaped."
There was a general outpouring of sympathy for the corporal; he appeared much better liked than the sergeant. A few men asked if they would rescue him.
Busch silenced the talk with an outstretched hand. "If he is captured, they will take him to the old church. Perhaps Johnson has been taken there as well. We will proceed as originally planned and hope the Dependence holds to its schedule. When we have completed our attack, we will come back and rescue them. Tomorrow, not today."