Being the son of an apothecary, the patriot spy had grown up on a wide variety of cures and potions. He was particularly fond of sleeping bombs, as the Gibbs's family pets — and a number of British soldiers — could attest. But those were impractical here for any number of reasons, starting with the fact that the necessary ingredients were lacking.
His studies had acquainted him with a variety of herbs and other natural medicines, however, and he began scouring the nearby woods for some ingredient that would incapacitate the troop. A few pieces of Fly Agaric mushrooms placed in their canteens would do the job very nicely — the plant produced an effect not unlike exceedingly strong rum. Though its results were variable, it could generally be counted on to intoxicate its victims for six or seven hours. It would also repel any horseflies in the vicinity.
Jake walked behind the house and down a gentle hillside leading into the woods, looking for the mushrooms. One of the homestead's previous occupants had been a midwife, and plenty of medicinal plants tripped at his heels — some peppermint, a few spearmint, even a creeping strawberry plant — but no mushrooms. Undoubtedly, van Clynne would have explained this via some dissertation on the natural order of things and one of his Dutchman's Rules of the Cosmic Arrangement: whatever you want most at hand is always furthest away, until you don't want it any more.
Jake passed the remains of an old foundation and felt his feet sinking in mud. The brush here became thicker, and as he surveyed the margins of the swamp he realized that the short, ground-covering shrubs that ran back up the hillside might serve his purpose as well as any mushroom. For the plants and their spiky green leaves appeared to be dog mercury, a potent herb common enough in Europe but only an occasional import to America. A few sniffs of their sour odor was enough to confirm his find; Jake took out his knife and stripped several handfuls of the leaves into his pockets.
Dog mercury could induce severe gastric distress if ingested; it had the added advantage of waiting a good hour or so before erupting. Unfortunately, it had to be eaten fresh, as the poison was easily diluted — and its strong smell tended to warn people away from it. People yes, but not necessarily horses, so long as he could mix it with something that lessened the bitter taste. Like a few mint leaves and some sugar. "What are you doing, Smith?"
"Just helping myself to a cone of the rebel's sugar," said Jake as innocently as possible when the sergeant caught him in the barn a few minutes later.
"I got m'eye on you," said the man. He emphasized his point by spitting toward Jake's feet.
Jake broke off a piece of the sugar cone and handed it to the man. His stubby cheek turned down with the force of his frown, but he accepted the peace offering nonetheless. "You served during the French and Indian War, I'd wager," suggested Jake. "Sayin' I'm old?" "No, sir. Not at all."
"Hmmphh." The piece of sugar was nearly as big as the sergeant's fist, but he shoved the entire hunk into his mouth like a five-year-old would.
Jake smiled and licked at his own piece. He needed privacy to finish mixing the herb with the sugar and mint, and then slip it into the horses' feed, but the sergeant didn't offer to leave. Lewis swished the sugar around in his mouth, as if he were chewing an overlarge piece of barley candy. Finally, he swallowed it with a gulp.
"Want some more?" offered Jake.
The sergeant frowned, then took the rest of his cone from him.
Jake shrugged and reached back into the wagon for another. Lewis grabbed his coat to stop him. "That's enough, now. The captain has plans for this. Say, what do ya have in yer pockets, Smith?"
"A few leaves for a tea," said Jake. "Want some?"
"What's this then, sassafras?"
"It's Indian pine," said Jake, inventing a new species on the spot. "It aids digestion. I have a problem with gas, and learned this cure from an old Algonquin woman. I take a bit every day."
"I've the same problem," said the sergeant, taking a new attitude toward the trooper.
Jake graciously offered to share some in a tea with the sergeant, if he would fetch the water while the leaves were prepared. In the time it took the man to round up a pail and find the well, Jake had mixed the batch and fed two-thirds of the horses, who were suspicious but glad enough of the sugar. He left his own horse alone, naturally, and was just debating whether to feed Busch's when he heard the door open.
"Captain says yer to leave directly with him," declared the sergeant. "Take his horse to him."
"I'll leave this for you then," said Jake, pointing to the small pile of leaves on the bench. "Drop them straight into the water." The sergeant picked a few up and made a face. "They smell like farts." "Have you studied the theory of humors and fluids, Sergeant Lewis?" "What humors?"
"The general idea is that like will repel like." Jake's science was accurate enough, though it could not be applied here. "The smell is what makes them effective. To tell you the truth — if you really want relief, eat them raw."
"Raw?"
Jake nodded solemnly.
Had the sergeant boiled the leaves they would have been rendered impotent. Uncooked, they would have the same effect on him as on the horses. Lewis made a face but picked up some of the leaves, chewing a moment and then swallowing with a hasty gulp. "Try some sugar with it," said Jake. "That's how I like it." Between the sergeant and the horses, the troop would be completely incapacitated within two hours. And the area would be uninhabitable for months.
Chapter Thirteen
As a general rule, Claus van Clynne would not have gone back to the Loaded with Mischief Inn for several weeks at least, long enough to let its proprietor forget his role in raising the price of salt. But as the tavern was the first to present itself and as van Clynne's thirst had reached powerful proportions, he consented to break his rule just this once. His reward was an outraged shout from the keeper, who directed his wife to swat the Dutchman on the back with her broom on his way off the premises.
"Tut, tut, my good man," said van Clynne, fussing with the large gold buttons of his coat as he eyed the woman's raised weapon. "Surely you can't be upset with me for facilitating your deal."
"Surely I can. You doubled the price."
"You bought your salt at a third what I paid for mine," said van Clynne, nodding at the inn's only other customer as he walked to the table. Van Clynne was not actually lying, merely neglecting to divide his cost across all of his purchase. "You'll make a fine profit off it, I suspect. As I see by your clock that it is just about noon, I'd like a mug of stout, please."
The keeper frowned heavily and considered the matter. It was one thing to hold a grudge; it was quite another to let that grudge prevent you from making a bit of profit. And so he directed his wife to disarm and went and fetched some beer for van Clynne.
"Do you mind if we set up an account?" queried the Dutchman when the tankard was set down.
The vessel was whisked back so quickly its contents did not have an opportunity to spill.
"Just a jest, my good man," said van Clynne, reaching for one of the purses he carried on a string suspended from his neck.
"Legal money," said the keeper. "You will use coins or you will find yourself sitting on the roadway talking to yourself."
"I had no intention of burdening you with paper," said van Clynne haughtily. "I have been looking for a way to get rid of this shilling for many months."
He dropped the coin so that it rolled across the table and continued onto the floor, making straight for the door. As the keeper dove to intercept it, van Clynne looked over and nodded at the customer sitting in the large armchair near the unlit fireplace. He was dressed in a powder blue coat with a brocaded yellow vest and very properly arranged hair. He sipped a thimble's worth of Madeira from a tiny silver beaker, undoubtedly one that he had brought to the inn himself. A walking stick crowned by a golden eagle stood at the side of his chair.