large at the stomach, but Jake donned it gladly. His clothes were more than a bit mismatched, even for these desperate times, but virtue often comes from necessity, and it did so here. The costume would make it easy for Jake to pass himself off as a poor militia deserter; the woods and swamps of north Jersey were full of them, and none would be wearing the latest fashions.
As the weaver adjusted Jake's coat, he suddenly fell back in pain.
"The damn gout has my shoulder." The man's face was white and drawn.
Jake eased the man around and pulled up his shirt, looking at his back. His nimble fingers, so used to grap pling with enemy soldiers, found a knot below the weaver's shoulder blade. With gentle but steady pres sure he poked it down, and the man's color returned.
"Are you a doctor, sir?" asked Daley, with obvious relief.
"Of sorts," said Jake. "Is there an apothecary in town?"
"A liar and a thief, as are the entire breed."
Jake smiled. "I want you to obtain a cure from him called the Gibbs Family Remedy. It contains an extract from the Caribbean sea whip. A teaspoon when this flares up, and you will feel a new man."
The weaver looked at him suspiciously.
"If he tries to charge you more than a dollar for the bottle, tell him you know he paid but ten pence."
Jake's father had discovered the properties of the fish from an aboriginal doctor and sold it at close to cost, determined that it would be his lasting contribu tion to the science of cures.
The weaver was so pleased that he produced a pair of boots and a large beaver hat with a hawk's feather, adding them to the bill at half-price. Jake's next stop was at the stable owned by a certain Michael Eagleheart, a farmer and smithy who had helped find horses for several of Washington's officers. Eagleheart, a bluff fellow with a quick hand and ready laugh, allowed as how Jake had come just in time; the day be fore he had taken possession of a mount ridden only by an old woman to church on Sundays.
To say that Jake was dubious of the tale is to say a donkey has four legs. Nonetheless, the claim was backed up in the flesh, as a three-year-old filly in fine mettle was soon found standing atop fresh shoes and shouldering a gentle disposition. Her price, at fifty pounds, was half the going rate, and Jake had her sad dled, boarded, and galloping for the road south within a few minutes, the farmer having thrown in a small sword to seal the bargain.
Chapter Eight
Wherein, Squire van Clynne has several experiences on the river, some unpleasant, and others more so.
W hile Jake rushes through the rough land of south ern Orange County into the hills and barrens of north ern Jersey, we will rejoin his friend and late companion, Claus van Clynne, who has been amusing himself by trying to escape the villainous white Indian, Egans.
Kneeling as his canoe flowed from the riverbank, van Clynne picked up a paddle and attempted to accelerate his progress downstream. The Dutchman had lost his weapons and purses, but not his considerable store of passes and pin money, and thus was able to comfort himself with the knowledge that, if he could merely overcome this tiresome interlude, he might yet com plete his voyage to General Washington successfully — assuming, of course, he could discover where the gen eral was.
These optimistic thoughts were not the only goad to his progress. Egans followed behind him on the shore, sending bullets so close that his hatless hair fluttered with the passing breeze. The Oneida was one of those men who learns greatly from his mistakes. When he reloaded and fired again, he was able to correct for his earlier aiming inadequacies, and was rewarded with a direct hit on van Clynne's canoe. The musket ball smashed against the hull with such ferocity that the Dutchman lost his balance and nearly fell over. The bullet sailed through the side into the floor of the canoe and thence into the depths, where it descended with an ominous hiss.
The
As the weaver adjusted Jake's coat, he suddenly fell back in pain.
"The damn gout has my shoulder." The man's face was white and drawn.
Jake eased the man around and pulled up his shirt, looking at his back. His nimble fingers, so used to grap pling with enemy soldiers, found a knot below the weaver's shoulder blade. With gentle but steady pres sure he poked it down, and the man's color returned.
"Are you a doctor, sir?" asked Daley, with obvious relief.
"Of sorts," said Jake. "Is there an apothecary in town?"
"A liar and a thief, as are the entire breed."
Jake smiled. "I want you to obtain a cure from him called the Gibbs Family Remedy. It contains an extract from the Caribbean sea whip. A teaspoon when this flares up, and you will feel a new man."
The weaver looked at him suspiciously.
"If he tries to charge you more than a dollar for the bottle, tell him you know he paid but ten pence."
Jake's father had discovered the properties of the fish from an aboriginal doctor and sold it at close to cost, determined that it would be his lasting contribu tion to the science of cures.
The weaver was so pleased that he produced a pair of boots and a large beaver hat with a hawk's feather, adding them to the bill at half-price. Jake's next stop was at the stable owned by a certain Michael Eagleheart, a farmer and smithy who had helped find horses for several of Washington's officers. Eagleheart, a bluff fellow with a quick hand and ready laugh, allowed as how Jake had come just in time; the day be fore he had taken possession of a mount ridden only by an old woman to church on Sundays.
To say that Jake was dubious of the tale is to say a donkey has four legs. Nonetheless, the claim was backed up in the flesh, as a three-year-old filly in fine mettle was soon found standing atop fresh shoes and shouldering a gentle disposition. Her price, at fifty pounds, was half the going rate, and Jake had her sad dled, boarded, and galloping for the road south within a few minutes, the farmer having thrown in a small sword to seal the bargain.
Chapter Eight
Wherein, Squire van Clynne has several experiences on the river, some unpleasant, and others more so.
W hile Jake rushes through the rough land of south ern Orange County into the hills and barrens of north ern Jersey, we will rejoin his friend and late companion, Claus van Clynne, who has been amusing himself by trying to escape the villainous white Indian, Egans.
Kneeling as his canoe flowed from the riverbank, van Clynne picked up a paddle and attempted to accelerate his progress downstream. The Dutchman had lost his weapons and purses, but not his considerable store of passes and pin money, and thus was able to comfort himself with the knowledge that, if he could merely overcome this tiresome interlude, he might yet com plete his voyage to General Washington successfully — assuming, of course, he could discover where the gen eral was.
These optimistic thoughts were not the only goad to his progress. Egans followed behind him on the shore, sending bullets so close that his hatless hair fluttered with the passing breeze. The Oneida was one of those men who learns greatly from his mistakes. When he reloaded and fired again, he was able to correct for his earlier aiming inadequacies, and was rewarded with a direct hit on van Clynne's canoe. The musket ball smashed against the hull with such ferocity that the Dutchman lost his balance and nearly fell over. The bullet sailed through the side into the floor of the canoe and thence into the depths, where it descended with an ominous hiss.
The
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