the river, take or rent a boat, and steal across to the city.
A few papers forged in Benjamin Franklin's son's name would come in handy if he ran into problems. Though a stout patriot himself, Franklin's son William was royal governor of New Jersey. He had been turned out the previous year and arrested, but his signature still impressed British authorities and Tories. It was also readily available to the Americans, and Washing ton's staff often amused themselves by duplicating it.
As they came to the village, Hamilton bade his friend farewell.
"I assume we will see you in a few days," said the aide. "And we'll be singing your praises again."
"Have some strong ale ready," suggested Jake.
"With pleasure."
Jake's first stop was an inn, where he had a quick breakfast — for such it was, even though the clock was past midday — of apple pie and fresh pheasant. The fowl was well prepared and left him in good spirits as he walked down the street to a weaver named Brian Daley, reported by Hamilton to be an especially hot friend of the Cause. The scouting proved accurate, though a bit more information might have prevented the misunderstanding that followed Jake's mentioning the colonel by name.
"Colonel Hamilton sent you, did he?" asked the man, setting aside the bolt he was working and rising from his loom.
Jake nodded in the affirmative, turned to take note of a fine piece of cloth, and suddenly found himself threatened by a sharp and rather nasty poker, its busi ness end dusted with hot ashes.
"Stay away from my daughter, do you hear?" said the man. "All you macaronis in your fancy suits — if you attempt to sweet-talk her the way that West Indies bas tard did, I'll have you skinned alive."
Jake managed to nudge the pointer from his face and delicately assured the man that his interest was in clothes, not daughters.
"It will help our cause a great deal," the spy added. "And you will be paid properly by General Washing ton's men, as these letters show."
The warrant allowing funds to be drawn — initialed by General Washington himself — helped clear up matters , and the weaver took him into the back room, where material was piled in haphazard fashion.
"I don't have time for a suit to be made," said Jake.
"I wasn't proposing to delay you," said the man, pushing aside several blankets to get to a store of knee breeches prepared for other clients. He looked back at Jake. "You're a tall one, though. It won't be easy to find something suitable. Although . . . Kristen, fetch me the trousers I set aside for Master Sullivan."
"Trousers? You're going to make me into a sailor? I am bound for New York, and must fit in there."
The weaver was unmoved by this confidence, much less the complaint. "You weren't aiming for any high society balls, were you?" he asked gruffly.
Indeed, he might be, thought Jake. The British in New York were famous for their parties, and it was quite easy to pick up important command gossip at their celebra tions. But he had no time to argue. The pants soon made their entrance in the hands of the weaver's daughter Kristen, who entered from the stairs. Hamil ton's interest in her was well justified; the girl's smooth, unblemished face was as round as a ripe tulip, and even in plain working clothes and apron, she added light to the room upon entering. Jake endeavored to keep his mind on his business. Excusing himself, he went behind a small screen and changed. The white trousers were a little tight in the thigh, but serviceable.
"How do they look?" Jake asked, stepping from be hind the screen.
Kristen had barely time to blush before her father ordered her out of the room.
"Back to work with you," he yelled at her, chasing her up the stairs. "And you, sir —"
"I'll keep my pants on, I assure you. Have you a waistcoat and jacket?"
"I have a hunting shirt, though it has seen better days," said the weaver. "It should be about your size."
"That would be fine," said Jake. The shirt proved somewhat
A few papers forged in Benjamin Franklin's son's name would come in handy if he ran into problems. Though a stout patriot himself, Franklin's son William was royal governor of New Jersey. He had been turned out the previous year and arrested, but his signature still impressed British authorities and Tories. It was also readily available to the Americans, and Washing ton's staff often amused themselves by duplicating it.
As they came to the village, Hamilton bade his friend farewell.
"I assume we will see you in a few days," said the aide. "And we'll be singing your praises again."
"Have some strong ale ready," suggested Jake.
"With pleasure."
Jake's first stop was an inn, where he had a quick breakfast — for such it was, even though the clock was past midday — of apple pie and fresh pheasant. The fowl was well prepared and left him in good spirits as he walked down the street to a weaver named Brian Daley, reported by Hamilton to be an especially hot friend of the Cause. The scouting proved accurate, though a bit more information might have prevented the misunderstanding that followed Jake's mentioning the colonel by name.
"Colonel Hamilton sent you, did he?" asked the man, setting aside the bolt he was working and rising from his loom.
Jake nodded in the affirmative, turned to take note of a fine piece of cloth, and suddenly found himself threatened by a sharp and rather nasty poker, its busi ness end dusted with hot ashes.
"Stay away from my daughter, do you hear?" said the man. "All you macaronis in your fancy suits — if you attempt to sweet-talk her the way that West Indies bas tard did, I'll have you skinned alive."
Jake managed to nudge the pointer from his face and delicately assured the man that his interest was in clothes, not daughters.
"It will help our cause a great deal," the spy added. "And you will be paid properly by General Washing ton's men, as these letters show."
The warrant allowing funds to be drawn — initialed by General Washington himself — helped clear up matters , and the weaver took him into the back room, where material was piled in haphazard fashion.
"I don't have time for a suit to be made," said Jake.
"I wasn't proposing to delay you," said the man, pushing aside several blankets to get to a store of knee breeches prepared for other clients. He looked back at Jake. "You're a tall one, though. It won't be easy to find something suitable. Although . . . Kristen, fetch me the trousers I set aside for Master Sullivan."
"Trousers? You're going to make me into a sailor? I am bound for New York, and must fit in there."
The weaver was unmoved by this confidence, much less the complaint. "You weren't aiming for any high society balls, were you?" he asked gruffly.
Indeed, he might be, thought Jake. The British in New York were famous for their parties, and it was quite easy to pick up important command gossip at their celebra tions. But he had no time to argue. The pants soon made their entrance in the hands of the weaver's daughter Kristen, who entered from the stairs. Hamil ton's interest in her was well justified; the girl's smooth, unblemished face was as round as a ripe tulip, and even in plain working clothes and apron, she added light to the room upon entering. Jake endeavored to keep his mind on his business. Excusing himself, he went behind a small screen and changed. The white trousers were a little tight in the thigh, but serviceable.
"How do they look?" Jake asked, stepping from be hind the screen.
Kristen had barely time to blush before her father ordered her out of the room.
"Back to work with you," he yelled at her, chasing her up the stairs. "And you, sir —"
"I'll keep my pants on, I assure you. Have you a waistcoat and jacket?"
"I have a hunting shirt, though it has seen better days," said the weaver. "It should be about your size."
"That would be fine," said Jake. The shirt proved somewhat
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