Chapter Twelve
Jake undoubtedly would have had a different view on the direction van Clynne should take. Fortunately for the squire, he was not available for consultation. Indeed, Jake's thoughts were devoted exclusively to the Tories he was riding with, and their mission of harrying Salem.
He had not told van Clynne to have Old Put send men there because he suspected it might be a diversion, though its precise role in any overall scheme was still unclear. Nonetheless, even a diversion could injure Americans, and as Jake rode he searched his mind for some way of sabotaging the operation without drawing too much attention to himself, or damaging his chances at discovering any plans to attack the chain.
The rangers proceeded east in high spirits, for there is nothing like an early and easy victory to set the tone for a campaign. Busch could not have arranged a better mood-setter than the Dutchman, so easily bested; the men practically sang to each other as they rode.
Jake noted that their path had been carefully scouted and selected; though nominally in patriot territory, they had yet to come across a patrol or even find a straggler foraging for food. The "liberated" ox and wagon slowed their progress, but their commander did not seem upset by the pace, and Jake realized as they pulled down the lane toward a single farmhouse in a hollow that they must be well ahead of whatever schedule Busch had set. Salem was now only a few miles away; even with the wagon, it would take less than an hour to reach.
No one came from the small house when they pulled up outside. Busch nodded at the sergeant, who signaled to two nearby men and began a perfunctory search of the property.
"We'll rest here a while," Busch told Jake. "This has gone easier than I'd hoped. You were brave back there, Smith; the Dutchman might have had a weapon." "Something about him told me I didn't have to worry." "Appearances can be deceiving." The American agent found it hard to disagree.
"Come into the house with me." Busch's words had the sharp cut of a command issued under fire — a bit too strong, it seemed, for the circumstances. Jake immediately feared the captain had overheard his whispered remarks to van Clynne.
Great is the power of imagination under the press of danger; left to its own devices it can manufacture a nation of demons and devils from a few chance words or the turn of a phrase. The only antidote is sheer willpower — though a loaded pocket pistol does not hurt, and Jake secreted his up his green-coated sleeve as he walked up the path of raked gravel behind Busch.
If it was a trap, it was an exceedingly pleasant one. The stone-faced room had been freshly cleaned, with a fine layer of sand raked over the floorboards in a swirling pattern. A Franklin stove stood in the corner, all fired up. A pot of water sat on the iron top, just a degree or two short of a full boil. The only difficulty Jake faced was the room's low ceiling-he had to stand with a slight bend to keep from knocking his helmeted head on the exposed joists.
"Our farmer friend arranged to be away this morning, in case some rebel should find us," explained Busch. "But he saw to our needs just the same. There's feed for the horses in the barn; the troop will rest here an hour or two before proceeding." Jake nodded, still unsure whether he was being tested. "When I found you at the inn, you thought you were completely without friends in this country, didn't you?" "It seemed the entire territory turned against the king."
"Hardly." Busch inspected the pot and then stoked the fire inside the stove. "No more than a quarter of these people have ever been firm rebels. I would say a half of the continent's inhabitants would go either way. That is our great problem — the neutrals." "Yes, sir." Busch smiled at him. "There's no need to be so formal when we're alone. I told you, I regard you as my brother." "That's kind, sir." Busch laughed. "You're always on your guard, Smith."
"I haven't always been," said Jake. He walked around the room as if looking for a place where he could fit his head without stooping, and tucked the pocket pistol discreetly into the side of his belt when the Tory wasn't looking.
"You're a man of learning, I can tell," offered Busch. "You're not really a farmer."
"I am a farmer in that I owned a farm. But my family sent me to England to school. I attended Oxford."
This was actually true, as was Jake's subsequent admission that he had spent much of his time at school not at school. His education was not so wasted as he implied — indeed, he'd been among the top students — but his bashful admission brought a smile to Busch's lips.
"I dreamed of going to Oxford," said the Tory captain. "I dreamed of going to England. But only to visit," he added quickly. "My home is here and I'll fight to the death to protect it. As will you." Jake nodded. "I can see certain things in men," said Busch. "Tell me, can you swim?" "Yes." "Good." Busch took a canister from a nearby shelf and began fussing with some cups. There was not much tea. "Are we taking time off for a swimming competition?" "Not necessarily." Jake suppressed an urge to grab the Tory and shake the details out of him.
"You must forgive me, Smith; it is a strong practice of mine to be careful with information; there are spies everywhere. You've impressed me, though — I'm sure you will be an officer yourself before long, once our commanders find out your background and you have a chance to show your mettle." "I'm flattered." "You're obviously capable, and of good birth." "My mother was indentured."
Busch shrugged off the vague retort — it happened also to be true, as is documented elsewhere — and concentrated on preparing the drinks. When the tea was brewed, he handed his subordinate a cup. This unstated ceremony was an eloquent way of forming a bond with a man, Jake realized, a gesture intended to build confidence.
"I have long needed someone with me whom I can trust," said Busch as he sipped his tea. "Someone who can think on his feet. Drink up, man. It's not as hot as it looks."
Jake had not let a single sip of tea pass his lips since he'd landed in Boston more than two years before, and he did not intend to do so now. Ever since the Tea Party, the drink had become the symbol of all he hated.
In truth, few Americans, even firm patriots, would go to the lengths he did, especially in these circumstances. But a principle is a principle — a cough welled in his throat just as he brought the cup to his lips, and his lungs exploded in a burst that sent the liquid sailing across the floor. The choking fit was so strong his helmet fell off into his tea cup, sending the contents as well as the porcelain onto the sandy floorboards.
"Went down — went the wrong way," Jake gasped. An epileptic could not have had a more convincing fit. He nodded weakly when Busch suggested he should get some air.
Jake was just opening the door when he felt Busch's light but firm touch stop him. It was the same grasp he had felt on the porch at Prisco's, and while he was not afraid of the Tory, still a shiver ran through Jake's body as he turned to face him. "You and I are not riding with the others. Our mission will be more perilous — are you prepared for it?" Jake nodded. "I have a few more items to attend to," said the captain. "We'll ride in a half hour, no more. Smith — "
Jake's eyes were once again caught in the Tory captain's powerful gaze. What a shame it was this man was on the wrong side of the war. "Sir?" "You won't fail me." "No," managed the patriot, having more difficulty with this lie than many longer ones. Busch nodded, silently dismissing him.
The same imagination that had created ambushes in the house was now double-timed into more constructive work. If Fortune had smiled on Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs by having Busch decide to take him along on the true mission back at the river, and maybe the chain — why else would he have asked if he could swim? — Jake still hoped to prevent the rest of the rangers from striking the unguarded town.