is nothing like an early and easy victory to set the tone for a campaign. Busch could not have arranged a better mood-setter than the Dutchman, so easily bested; the men practically sang to each other as they rode.
Jake noted that their path had been carefully scouted and selected; though nominally in patriot territory, they had yet to come across a patrol or even find a straggler foraging for food. The "liberated" ox and wagon slowed their progress, but their commander did not seem upset by the pace, and Jake realized as they pulled down the lane toward a single farmhouse in a hollow that they must be well ahead of whatever schedule Busch had set. Salem was now only a few miles away; even with the wagon, it would take less than an hour to reach.
No one came from the small house when they pulled up outside. Busch nodded at the sergeant, who signaled to two nearby men and began a perfunctory search of the property.
"We'll rest here a while," Busch told Jake. "This has gone easier than I'd hoped. You were brave back there, Smith; the Dutchman might have had a weapon."
"Something about him told me I didn't have to worry."
"Appearances can be deceiving."
The American agent found it hard to disagree.
"Come into the house with me." Busch's words had the sharp cut of a command issued under fire — a bit too strong, it seemed, for the circumstances. Jake immediately feared the captain had overheard his whispered remarks to van Clynne.
Great is the power of imagination under the press of danger; left to its own devices it can manufacture a nation of demons and devils from a few chance words or the turn of a phrase. The only antidote is sheer willpower — though a loaded pocket pistol does not hurt, and Jake secreted his up his green-coated sleeve as he walked up the path of raked gravel behind Busch.
If it was a trap, it was an exceedingly pleasant one. The stone-faced room had been freshly cleaned, with a fine layer of sand raked over the floorboards in a swirling pattern. A Franklin stove stood in the corner, all fired up. A pot of water sat on the iron top, just a degree or two short of a full boil. The only difficulty Jake faced was the room's low ceiling—he had to stand with a slight bend to keep from knocking his helmeted head on the exposed joists.
"Our farmer friend arranged to be away this morning, in case some rebel should find us," explained Busch. "But he saw to our needs just the same. There's feed for the horses in the barn; the troop will rest here an hour or two before proceeding."
Jake nodded, still unsure whether he was being tested.
"When I found you at the inn, you thought you were completely without friends in this country, didn't you?"
"It seemed the entire territory turned against the king."
"Hardly." Busch inspected the pot and then stoked the fire inside the stove. "No more than a quarter of these people have ever been firm rebels. I would say a half of the continent's inhabitants would go either way. That is our great problem — the neutrals."
"Yes, sir."
Busch smiled at him. "There's no need to be so formal when we're alone. I told you, I regard you as my brother."
"That's kind, sir."
Busch laughed. "You're always on your guard, Smith."
"I haven't always been," said Jake. He walked around the room as if looking for a place where he could fit his head without stooping, and tucked the pocket pistol discreetly into the side of his belt when the Tory wasn't looking.
"You're a man of learning, I can tell," offered Busch. "You're not really a farmer."
"I am a farmer in that I owned a farm. But my family sent me to England to school. I attended Oxford."
This was actually true, as was Jake's subsequent admission that he had spent much of his time at school not at school. His education was not so wasted as he implied — indeed, he'd been among the top students — but his bashful admission brought a smile to Busch's lips.
"I dreamed of going to Oxford," said the Tory captain. "I dreamed of
Jake noted that their path had been carefully scouted and selected; though nominally in patriot territory, they had yet to come across a patrol or even find a straggler foraging for food. The "liberated" ox and wagon slowed their progress, but their commander did not seem upset by the pace, and Jake realized as they pulled down the lane toward a single farmhouse in a hollow that they must be well ahead of whatever schedule Busch had set. Salem was now only a few miles away; even with the wagon, it would take less than an hour to reach.
No one came from the small house when they pulled up outside. Busch nodded at the sergeant, who signaled to two nearby men and began a perfunctory search of the property.
"We'll rest here a while," Busch told Jake. "This has gone easier than I'd hoped. You were brave back there, Smith; the Dutchman might have had a weapon."
"Something about him told me I didn't have to worry."
"Appearances can be deceiving."
The American agent found it hard to disagree.
"Come into the house with me." Busch's words had the sharp cut of a command issued under fire — a bit too strong, it seemed, for the circumstances. Jake immediately feared the captain had overheard his whispered remarks to van Clynne.
Great is the power of imagination under the press of danger; left to its own devices it can manufacture a nation of demons and devils from a few chance words or the turn of a phrase. The only antidote is sheer willpower — though a loaded pocket pistol does not hurt, and Jake secreted his up his green-coated sleeve as he walked up the path of raked gravel behind Busch.
If it was a trap, it was an exceedingly pleasant one. The stone-faced room had been freshly cleaned, with a fine layer of sand raked over the floorboards in a swirling pattern. A Franklin stove stood in the corner, all fired up. A pot of water sat on the iron top, just a degree or two short of a full boil. The only difficulty Jake faced was the room's low ceiling—he had to stand with a slight bend to keep from knocking his helmeted head on the exposed joists.
"Our farmer friend arranged to be away this morning, in case some rebel should find us," explained Busch. "But he saw to our needs just the same. There's feed for the horses in the barn; the troop will rest here an hour or two before proceeding."
Jake nodded, still unsure whether he was being tested.
"When I found you at the inn, you thought you were completely without friends in this country, didn't you?"
"It seemed the entire territory turned against the king."
"Hardly." Busch inspected the pot and then stoked the fire inside the stove. "No more than a quarter of these people have ever been firm rebels. I would say a half of the continent's inhabitants would go either way. That is our great problem — the neutrals."
"Yes, sir."
Busch smiled at him. "There's no need to be so formal when we're alone. I told you, I regard you as my brother."
"That's kind, sir."
Busch laughed. "You're always on your guard, Smith."
"I haven't always been," said Jake. He walked around the room as if looking for a place where he could fit his head without stooping, and tucked the pocket pistol discreetly into the side of his belt when the Tory wasn't looking.
"You're a man of learning, I can tell," offered Busch. "You're not really a farmer."
"I am a farmer in that I owned a farm. But my family sent me to England to school. I attended Oxford."
This was actually true, as was Jake's subsequent admission that he had spent much of his time at school not at school. His education was not so wasted as he implied — indeed, he'd been among the top students — but his bashful admission brought a smile to Busch's lips.
"I dreamed of going to Oxford," said the Tory captain. "I dreamed of
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