After General Howe and his troops succeeded in turning the American line at Brooklyn Heights on Long Island in the fall of 1776, General Washington orchestrated a daring nighttime retreat. Having escaped the cauldron, the Continental troops hunkered down in the city opposite, preparing defenses for the inevitable assault. The ensuing disaster of Kipp's Bay, where Howe routed our boys with a heavy rain of cannon, is nearly too depressing to mention. Only by the most heroic of measures was the commander-in-chief able to regain control of his army and retreat north. It was not until the brave battle at White Plains that the tide was finally turned. That skirmish may well have preserved our Revolution, and shall undoubtedly be praised by generations to come, once we have won our Freedom.
In the days following Washington's withdrawal from New York, a massive fire broke out in the western precincts. From Broadway west to the fort, from the water north to Barclay Street, no building was untouched by the flames. Even the magnificent steeple of Trinity Church glowed with the red flickers. The destruction was several times greater than that caused by the cannons of war; it may truthfully be said that no conflagration of similar proportions had ever raged on the continent. The wounded precincts have since become host to a city within a city built of ruins and canvas, the poor huddling for whatever shelter they can find.
But as Claus van Clynne would cheerfully point out, ever since its establishment by the Dutch, New York has been a city of great resources and strength. The presence of the British in the fort at the island's southern tip — and even more importantly, on the fields to the north and the waters to the east and south — proved a magnet to all manner of Tory. American industry, ignorant of politics, constantly seeks to build and grow, no matter who sits in the governor's house or mans the battlements.
Indeed, the city Jake proceeded through after leaving the infirmary hideout was enjoying what van Clynne's favorite philosopher Adam Smith might call an economic boom. Despite the late hour, the streets were filled with people going about their business. Even the notorious city pigs, supplemented by an occasional loose dog, walked with purpose. The air was as filled with the smell of money being made and spent as it was with horse dung.
Jake thought of pulling up the collar of his jacket to obscure his face. But on second thought, he felt this might unnecessarily attract attention. How often is it said that the most obvious hiding place is the one least expected? He straightened his spine and walked with a solid gait, hastening up George's Street toward the commons and then eastward. At every step, it seemed he saw a soldier or an obvious British functionary; Jake smiled and always endeavored to make direct eye contact.
It was a bold approach. While Jake had the advantage of moving through the city at a time when all of Howe's command and a large portion of his men had been removed to stew aboard ship, still, at any moment Chance herself might throw someone across his path who would recognize him and sound the alarm.
Not that he was unarmed. Beneath his belt Jake carried his Segallas, fully loaded and ready for action. He also had two full-sized pistols borrowed from the Sons' armory beneath his jacket, and a knife tucked into his right boot.
The spy's destination was a small apothecary shop off an alley on Cherry Street. Just a block off the docks and shipyards, before the Revolution the neighborhood was rough and thoroughly mixed, frequented by sailors and assorted ruffians who knocked shoulders with wealthy merchants, legitimate and otherwise. Any sort of deal in the world could be hatched here, and if the Devil were looking for a place to do his business, he could not have chosen a better spot.
Nor had respectability threatened this vale now that war had come. Jake adopted a certain aggressive gait, hands swinging and chin jutting forward as he nudged his way past the taverns and warehouses. He walked quicker, beginning to anticipate the meeting he had planned; he had not seen the owner of the shop he was visiting for several months.
But a half-block from his destination, a sensation grew on him that he was being followed. He took a left turn away from the building, walking up in the general direction of the reservoir. Sure enough, his fleeting glance revealed a figure in the shadows behind him.
The buildings lining the street were butted against one another too closely to give him a hiding place. He continued walking, his step brisk and deliberate but not panicked, making it seem as if this were his direction all along.
A shed that had been converted to a sales office for barrels of pitch sat on the next block, just on the outskirts of the tanning yards. A porch stood over the front of the building, guarded by two large, rough-hewn posts. The posts had an assortment of barrels and coils of rope hauled around them; whatever function these were meant to serve, they provided an excellent hiding place for the patriot spy as he ducked behind them and crouched down.
The man following him turned the corner onto the empty street. Not seeing his quarry, he broke into a trot, his full-length cloak flapping as he ran to catch his prey.
Jake slipped the knife from his boot and ran his thumb along the sleek steel blade. Just as the fellow passed him, Jake leaped over the barrel, grabbing the villain by the throat.
"Why would anyone wear a heavy coat in the summer heat?" the patriot asked his prisoner.
"Father!"
"Damn you, Alison," said Jake, spinning her around but not releasing her. "You almost had your throat slit. Why aren't you with Daltoons?"
"I told him I was going to the privy. He's very brave, but easily fooled. His coat is handy, though. It comes equipped with many pockets for weapons and such."
Jake scowled. If his knife had frightened her for even an instant, there was no trace of it on her face. "What you need is a good caning."
"Are all patriots treated this way?"
"Ones who don't obey orders. Where's Claus?"
"Sleeping like a baby, and snoring like a hound in heat."
"That's something, at least." Jake thought of sending her back alone, but dismissed the idea on two counts: one that it was too dangerous, and two that she was unlikely to follow such an order. "Come along."
The moon had continued her climb through the clear sky during Jake's brief detour, and now Night was serenading the city with her bright starlight and gentle bird songs. The building he sought had a large, multiply paned glass window that covered most of its front. Several of the panels were made of thick, brightly colored glass similar to that found in the most lavish churches. Other than this obvious sign of prosperity, there was no hint of the building's owner or his business. Jake stood before the closed doorway for a moment, waiting as two men walked into the tavern across the way.
"Stay right here," said Jake to Alison. "Do not move. And do not go into that tavern. It is owned by a friend, but the sailors will have you aboard their ship before he spots you."
"I am not afraid of them."
"But I am," warned Jake.
He reached inside his vest pocket and retrieved a narrow, wedge-shaped piece of metal which he wielded like a skeleton key. In a second, he pushed the door inwards and slipped inside.
"Bebeef, are you awake?" he asked, walking toward the back. "Professor Bebeef?"
The only answer was a soft thud from the back room. Jake stepped gingerly along the wide, painted pine planks; the floor was littered with glass jars, boxes, and canvas bags. Only half contained what one might call the customary wares of an apothecary.
Nominally a druggist, the proprietor had a severe weakness for oddities and machines of all kinds. If the truth be told, he was a soft touch for any inventor or salesman who wandered in. On the floor and shelves were such items as an authentic Egyptian spyglass, a steel spring said to cure consumption better than Bebeef’s own potions, and a large, winged contraption with which, under the proper circumstances, a man could fly. That such circumstances had not yet been discovered did not prevent the gray-haired chemist, philosopher, and veritable wizard from cheerfully trying to sell the device to anyone who strayed into his store.
"Bebeef?"
Jake knocked at the door to the rear room, where the proprietor customarily slept.
"Professor?"
There was a sound inside, louder than before. Jake pushed the door open, then fell flat against the jam as a large white ball exploded toward him.
The cat, Mister Spooky.
"I am being assaulted by all sorts of animals today,” Jake complained to himself. His self-deprecating laugh was interrupted by a gentle but nonetheless obvious poke at his ribs.
"Do not move or this sword will pierce your flesh," said an unfamiliar voice. "It is tipped with a poison that will kill you only after the most painful seizures imaginable."