Jake, meanwhile, played the role of good Loyalist. He exchanged his brown farmer's coat for a dark green ranger jacket, bowing his head as he took the cloth with nearly as much reverence as the king used for his coronation. Then he feasted with the others on the mountain of nutmeg-flavored corncakes Stoneman provided for the rangers. Rose made a brief appearance with the farmer's wife, carrying the cakes; she took no notice of Jake and pretended not to hear the whispers of the Tories who surmised she was the girl he'd been seen outside with. That small incident added nearly as much luster to his reputation as his rescue of Busch, the men kidding him that perhaps Smith was not such a bad last name at all.
Immediately after breakfast Busch had the sergeant issue weapons to the newcomers. Jake received a musketoon or carbine — the two words describe the same weapon — and a regulation musket, along with a fine sword and a good supply of cartridge ammunition.
The carbine measured almost exactly forty-five inches from stock to barrel tip, far shorter than the musket, making it easier to handle on horseback. A peculiarity of this French-made weapon was its partially rifled barrel; these grooves, meant to improve accuracy, stopped about eight inches from the end of the gun. In theory, this combined the advantages of the musket — ready loading? with the advantages of the rifle — better accuracy. The reality fell somewhat short, but there was more chance of hitting a target at fifty yards than with a pistol.
The musket Jake was given was an older model Brown Bess with a shorter barrel than was now standard issue in the British army, the idea being either that it was easier to carry on horseback or provincials were second-class troops anyway and so could get by with obsolete weapons.
Readers who have heard of the fearsomeness of cavalry attacks but never experienced them may be surprised to learn that even the carbine was not meant to be fired from horseback. Pistols and swords were the weapons of choice from the saddle, and a fully equipped dragoon — or Tory ranger, for that matter — would carry two pistols in a saddle holster or else his belt. But these were in short supply, and none were issued. Jake had to make do with the single officer's pistol he had arrived with; the gun was a bit lighter than the excellent models Busch owned, but it was finer than most of the other hand pistols displayed in the barn.
The swords were long, well-sharpened, and balanced weapons that could slice the head off an opponent if the horse's momentum were used properly. They were not so ornate as was common among British officers, but they had come directly from a London armory.
In truth, Jake wished the blades were rusted and the guns fouled. Considerable destructive power was arrayed beneath these wide rafters; if it were used to only half of its potential, the American toll would be great.
The rangers mustered and mounted, with Captain Busch now dressed in his own dark green coat at their head. One of their number bears a light green flag as insignia, so drunken is their arrogance despite their location behind enemy lines.
But nowhere is their insolent gall more obvious than in their hats. While most Loyalist units wear some similar shade of green coat, the men had been issued a distinct uniform cap meant to instill unit pride, as well as offer some protection. The helmets had started as leather coverings, with a small beak at the front; a smart, thick piece of bear fur was crisscrossed on the top, tied down with a thick rope of horse hair and pinned by a small brass button on either side. At the back, the hair and fur were knotted in a red bow, an emblem, or so Busch declared, of their patron, the Earl Graycolmb.
Claus van Clynne, a connoisseur of headgear who had derided Jake's customary tricorner on several occasions, would have laughed at these beanies, but to a man the troop thought them rather smart. They pressed forward in single file formation toward the road, looking for all the world as if they were heading toward a King's Day parade. At the intersection with the road, Captain Busch swung his horse aside and signaled his two dozen mounted followers to fan out and listen to his speech.
We do not wish to alarm the weak-willed into fleeing the countryside, and thus will not repeat his fiery charge here. Suffice to say it was well formed, praising their benefactor, the Earl Graycolmb, who had made this troop possible, and denouncing the ungrateful American rebels, who had made it necessary. The speech touched on rival Tory brigades, including the famous Rogers Rangers (the original leader's occasional remarks in favor of the Revolution went unreported). It ended with a stirring invocation of the king's name, which resulted in a strong cheer that sent a deep chill down Jake's spine.
Chapter Nine
The reader should not think that Squire van Clynne has been idle during this interlude; in fact, the good and portly Dutchman has been doing yeoman service in the name of the Cause, rising well before dawn with the vim and vigor of a man determined to serve his country, though if the full truth be told, he did not rise in a very good mood. Indeed, the Dutchman had even more vinegar about him than normal and was twice as irascible, grumping and growling through his morning toilet.
Had we the time, we might linger over the description of this morning preparation, for the Dutchman is fastidious to a fault, customarily rubbing not merely his eyes but his cheeks and nose with the frosty water that stands fresh by the innkeeper's kitchen door. He combs his beard five times through every dawn with his whalebone comb, and even takes this instrument once gently through the hair atop his head. He then spends another minute or more maneuvering his large and revered hat over his crown, until it finds its most striking position. Last but not least, he runs his hands over his many pockets, belts, and buckles, making sure his weapons, money, and passes are at the ready.
This morning these customary ministrations were accompanied by a litany of complaints directed at the injustice of his assignment, and the lengths he has gone to in the name of the Cause. It must be remembered that the Dutchman, whatever his other interests, is first and foremost a hearty patriot and a sworn enemy of all that is British, with the exception of their ale. His hatred has been bred into his genes, and in some respects, he regards the Revolution as personal vindication of his attitude.
Thus, it is natural that his ego would suffer a great blow at being left behind while Jake proceeded on the adventure to rout the Tories; he feels that he has been treated, if not quite as a cowardly poltroon, at least as a hanger-on. Considering his role — or at least, his view of his role — in delivering the fake message to Howe, this new job is a considerable disappointment. To be given the task of riding unadventurously to Albany to meet with Schuyler — a Dutchman who prefers Madeira to beer and relied on a British model in constructing his home well, Samson had not been taken down so far when his locks were shorn.
There are, naturally, more material concerns: the squire was counting on an introduction from Jake to General Putnam to smooth the way for future business dealings, which would be of benefit not merely to himself but to his country. Far beyond that, he realizes that his best hopes for regaining his family property rest almost entirely on Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs and his influence with His Excellency General George Washington. If Gibbs were to forget him — or worse, if he were to somehow become incapacitated — van Clynne would have to return to his past regime of endless legal battles and sob-filled entreaties.
The Dutchman put aside his cares at his predicament to bid farewell to his beloved. He promised he would return; he told her she was the tulip of his garden; she was the yeast of his bread. Jane gave the only response possible in the circumstance — she happily continued to snore, as his shakes had not succeeded in waking her. The Dutchman left her sleeping with her aunt, bid the rest of the dark house goodbye, and started north on the road to Pine's Bridge. He had the two dead Tories' horses hitched behind his own gelding, intending to deliver them to the nearest American post, or to Schuyler himself, depending on which promised the most advantage.