Lewis was not exactly a choir mouse, and had heard stronger language even on the Sabbath. Nonetheless, the spew of curses that emanated from Valden's mouth in connection with his question took the sergeant by surprise. In his view of the world, British gentlemen — and most especially anyone to whom the word "sir" was ascribed as an adjective — spoke in words that wouldn't flutter the meekest butterfly. "Well, speak up, you arse. What the shitten damn hell happened to Captain Busch?" "He's been detained, sir," said Jake when the sergeant was unable to speak. "Detained where?" "We were ambushed by the river during our mission to spy on the chain." "And the sister-rogering turd rebels captured him?"
"No, sir, he escaped, but was unable to make it back to the rendezvous." Jake thought it wise not to mention his own adventures in jail, though that meant suppressing a desire to hear what new concoction of curses the inventive British captain might cobble together in his honor.
"See what comes of working with goddamn catch-fart Americans," Sir Valden said to Gidoin. "Mr. Washington undoubtedly knows the entire operation by now."
"Begging your pardon, sir," said Jake, "but General Washington is many miles away in New Jersey."
"Mister Washington," Valden corrected. The accordance of honor to the American general was a touchy subject for many British officers.
"How do you know where he is?"
A not inappropriate question, Jake thought to himself before telling Gidoin that it was common knowledge. "Even the farm waifs keep track of their hero," he added cheerfully. "It's a sport for them, just as many Londoners watch the king."
The parallel was not appreciated. Gidoin and Valden moved back a few paces to discuss how to proceed. More than Busch's failure to arrive, they were bothered by the disappearance of Major Johnson, the disguised marine officer who had been sent to help coordinate the operation. Johnson was supposed to have sent a second ranger group to the ship for the mission; both he and the Royalist had failed to show up as scheduled last night.
"Begging your pardon, sirs," said Jake, overhearing. "Our captain believed that Major Johnson was captured by the enemy. He was pursued and involved me in a stratagem to escape, but has not been seen nor heard from since. Our captain did not care a whit for him; we proceeded beautifully without him, and I daresay we will continue to do so."
Jake's voice was confident, and he spoke almost as if he were bragging about the Tory group's exploits. But he fully realized that the British officers would pay attention to the substance of what he said, not the style. He could thus fan their caution while seeming to boast of his group's fearlessness.
Sergeant Lewis, angry at being usurped and somewhat over his shock, stepped up to join him. "Sirs, begging your pardon, but my men and I are quite ready to proceed without Captain Busch or this Johnson fellow."
"Yes," added Jake. "I can supply all the intelligence we need about the chain. I walked out on it myself. There are no more than two dozen batteries concealed along the eastern shore north of Anthony's Nose, and I doubt that any of the American ships we saw are much bigger than this."
"How many ships?" asked Gidoin.
"I couldn't say precisely, sir, as it was dark and the masts tended to blend together. They were cowardly in any event, hiding upriver."
To every question the British commander asked, Jake replied with a boast and well-turned lie, making light of the defenses on the one hand, while greatly multiplying them on the other. His was the work of the greatest alchemist, his tongue a veritable philosopher's stone, creating from whole cloth — nay, from discarded wool — an army and navy several times the size of the largest force available on the continent. To order an attack against it, the British commanders would display a degree of stupidity unusual even for their breed. Even the marine guards accompanying them shuddered with Jake's description.
Jake continued on blithely, as if unaware of the effect of his words. Indeed, he stated quite clearly that he was ready to lead the force himself, and volunteered to command a vanguard of forlorn hope that would launch itself in rowboats, swim the thirty or forty leagues to the chain under fire from the shore batteries, climb past the two rows of raft obstacles and dive on the twelve-inch-thick chain, sawing it in half with the files they'd carry between their teeth.
"We already have a bloody-damn-well-conceived plan," said Valden in a withering voice.
"And what is that, sir? I stand ready to take my commander's place at the head of the column."
The ship's master cast a cautious eye toward the sky and bade Valden step away for a private consultation. They began discussing not only the defenses but how the bomb canoe — Jake heard the words but as yet could not make sense of them — would perform if the storm kicked up.
"I'm in charge here," muttered the sergeant to Jake under his breath. "Best remember your place."
"Captain Busch chose me to go with him to the chain, not you," said Jake defiantly. "I'll not back down before you, or before General Washington and his horde of rebel thieves."
Five more minutes of this, the patriot spy thought to himself as he folded his arms over his chest in mock satisfaction, and they'll pack me off to Bristol to recruit regulars.
Gidoin and Valden broke off their conference. They stepped forward and addressed both Jake and the sergeant, much to the latter's consternation.
"In light of the situation," said Valden, "we are going to delay the attack until tomorrow evening. In that time, perhaps Major Johnson or your Captain Busch will reach us."
"Begging your pardon, sirs," said the sergeant, desperate to boost his image, "but why should we wait for either of them? I am ready to lead the way."
"Johnson planned the diversionary assault on Peekskill," said Valden. "It's his to lead. I'm not committing my marines to a donkey ass plan under the command of goddamn colonial half-wits." "I know Peekskill as well as any man born here," said Sergeant Lewis, fired up by the insults. "And as for the chain — " "Let me go against the chain," declared Jake. "I don't think — "
Jake turned quickly to the men. "Who will join me?" he thundered. "Who will come with me for the honor of God and king? Who will defy certain death at these bastards' hands, face down their guns, and defy their bullets! I have seen their defenses and I don't care what the odds are — I say death is a noble thing in the name of our cause!"
Not surprisingly, no one stepped forward.
"Then I'll go myself!" he declared boldly. "I'll swim there if necessary and beat the damn Americans with my bare hands."
"Brave words. I could hear them halfway across the river."
All eyes on deck turned toward the entry port, where a man in shirt sleeves had just hauled himself up. His hair waved in the breeze, and his cheeks were flush, not with the exertion of hauling up the side of the ship but with anger.
"Arrest him," said Captain Busch, in his voice a barely controlled fury. He jabbed his finger at Jake as he walked across the deck. "The man is an American agent."
Chapter Thirty-five
You damnable bastard," said Busch as his short but rapid strides brought him to his enemy. "You are as evil a traitor to king and peace as any man in this land."
There was a moment of shocked stillness on the deck, perfect quiet as the rangers, the ship's complement, even the birds and animals of the surrounding shores, all stopped what they were doing and stared at the accused. Busch, whose fury welled so greatly that he was unable to continue speaking, moved his hand to slap Jake across the face. But Jake's reflexes were too quick for him, grabbing the arm and stopping it mid-air.
"I treated you as a brother," said Busch as he broke his hand free. "I trusted you."