going to England. But only to visit," he added quickly. "My home is here and I'll fight to the death to protect it. As will you."
Jake nodded.
"I can see certain things in men," said Busch. "Tell me, can you swim?"
"Yes."
"Good." Busch took a canister from a nearby shelf and began fussing with some cups. There was not much tea.
"Are we taking time off for a swimming competition?"
"Not necessarily."
Jake suppressed an urge to grab the Tory and shake the details out of him.
"You must forgive me, Smith; it is a strong practice of mine to be careful with information; there are spies everywhere. You've impressed me, though — I'm sure you will be an officer yourself before long, once our commanders find out your background and you have a chance to show your mettle."
"I'm flattered."
"You're obviously capable, and of good birth."
"My mother was indentured."
Busch shrugged off the vague retort — it happened also to be true, as is documented elsewhere — and concentrated on preparing the drinks. When the tea was brewed, he handed his subordinate a cup. This unstated ceremony was an eloquent way of forming a bond with a man, Jake realized, a gesture intended to build confidence.
"I have long needed someone with me whom I can trust," said Busch as he sipped his tea. "Someone who can think on his feet. Drink up, man. It's not as hot as it looks."
Jake had not let a single sip of tea pass his lips since he'd landed in Boston more than two years before, and he did not intend to do so now. Ever since the Tea Party, the drink had become the symbol of all he hated.
In truth, few Americans, even firm patriots, would go to the lengths he did, especially in these circumstances. But a principle is a principle — a cough welled in his throat just as he brought the cup to his lips, and his lungs exploded in a burst that sent the liquid sailing across the floor. The choking fit was so strong his helmet fell off into his tea cup, sending the contents as well as the porcelain onto the sandy floorboards.
"Went down — went the wrong way," Jake gasped. An epileptic could not have had a more convincing fit. He nodded weakly when Busch suggested he should get some air.
Jake was just opening the door when he felt Busch's light but firm touch stop him. It was the same grasp he had felt on the porch at Prisco's, and while he was not afraid of the Tory, still a shiver ran through Jake's body as he turned to face him.
"You and I are not riding with the others. Our mission will be more perilous — are you prepared for it?"
Jake nodded.
"I have a few more items to attend to," said the captain. "We'll ride in a half hour, no more. Smith — "
Jake's eyes were once again caught in the Tory captain's powerful gaze. What a shame it was this man was on the wrong side of the war.
"Sir?"
"You won't fail me."
"No," managed the patriot, having more difficulty with this lie than many longer ones.
Busch nodded, silently dismissing him.
The same imagination that had created ambushes in the house was now double-timed into more constructive work. If Fortune had smiled on Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs by having Busch decide to take him along on the true mission back at the river, and maybe the chain — why else would he have asked if he could swim? — Jake still hoped to prevent the rest of the rangers from striking the unguarded town.
Being the son of an apothecary, the patriot spy had grown up on a wide variety of cures and potions. He was particularly fond of sleeping bombs, as the Gibbs's family pets — and a number of British soldiers — could attest. But those were impractical here for any number of reasons, starting with the fact that the necessary ingredients were lacking.
His studies had acquainted him with a variety of herbs and other natural medicines, however, and he began scouring the nearby woods for some ingredient that would incapacitate the troop. A few pieces of Fly Agaric mushrooms placed in their canteens would do the job
Jake nodded.
"I can see certain things in men," said Busch. "Tell me, can you swim?"
"Yes."
"Good." Busch took a canister from a nearby shelf and began fussing with some cups. There was not much tea.
"Are we taking time off for a swimming competition?"
"Not necessarily."
Jake suppressed an urge to grab the Tory and shake the details out of him.
"You must forgive me, Smith; it is a strong practice of mine to be careful with information; there are spies everywhere. You've impressed me, though — I'm sure you will be an officer yourself before long, once our commanders find out your background and you have a chance to show your mettle."
"I'm flattered."
"You're obviously capable, and of good birth."
"My mother was indentured."
Busch shrugged off the vague retort — it happened also to be true, as is documented elsewhere — and concentrated on preparing the drinks. When the tea was brewed, he handed his subordinate a cup. This unstated ceremony was an eloquent way of forming a bond with a man, Jake realized, a gesture intended to build confidence.
"I have long needed someone with me whom I can trust," said Busch as he sipped his tea. "Someone who can think on his feet. Drink up, man. It's not as hot as it looks."
Jake had not let a single sip of tea pass his lips since he'd landed in Boston more than two years before, and he did not intend to do so now. Ever since the Tea Party, the drink had become the symbol of all he hated.
In truth, few Americans, even firm patriots, would go to the lengths he did, especially in these circumstances. But a principle is a principle — a cough welled in his throat just as he brought the cup to his lips, and his lungs exploded in a burst that sent the liquid sailing across the floor. The choking fit was so strong his helmet fell off into his tea cup, sending the contents as well as the porcelain onto the sandy floorboards.
"Went down — went the wrong way," Jake gasped. An epileptic could not have had a more convincing fit. He nodded weakly when Busch suggested he should get some air.
Jake was just opening the door when he felt Busch's light but firm touch stop him. It was the same grasp he had felt on the porch at Prisco's, and while he was not afraid of the Tory, still a shiver ran through Jake's body as he turned to face him.
"You and I are not riding with the others. Our mission will be more perilous — are you prepared for it?"
Jake nodded.
"I have a few more items to attend to," said the captain. "We'll ride in a half hour, no more. Smith — "
Jake's eyes were once again caught in the Tory captain's powerful gaze. What a shame it was this man was on the wrong side of the war.
"Sir?"
"You won't fail me."
"No," managed the patriot, having more difficulty with this lie than many longer ones.
Busch nodded, silently dismissing him.
The same imagination that had created ambushes in the house was now double-timed into more constructive work. If Fortune had smiled on Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs by having Busch decide to take him along on the true mission back at the river, and maybe the chain — why else would he have asked if he could swim? — Jake still hoped to prevent the rest of the rangers from striking the unguarded town.
Being the son of an apothecary, the patriot spy had grown up on a wide variety of cures and potions. He was particularly fond of sleeping bombs, as the Gibbs's family pets — and a number of British soldiers — could attest. But those were impractical here for any number of reasons, starting with the fact that the necessary ingredients were lacking.
His studies had acquainted him with a variety of herbs and other natural medicines, however, and he began scouring the nearby woods for some ingredient that would incapacitate the troop. A few pieces of Fly Agaric mushrooms placed in their canteens would do the job
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