Free The Silver Bullet by Jim DeFelice

see where he went. Well before Jake arrived at the back of the house, he realized the destination must be the Smith family homestead, and that the boy must be allied with the Tories.
    “ They’re on their way, Father,” said the lad to the two taller figures in the road in front of the house. “They’re in front of the church.”
    “ Good, Jamie. Go inside with Mother and make sure the cannon is ready. Mr. Peters and I will be here for awhile longer.’
    Peters – whose accent gave him away immediately as a British officer fresh from south Wales – was working on a vast ditch in the road in front of the house, filling it with water from a nearby well. “We’re ready,” he told Smith. “We’ve just got to cover the trench with the rushes and dirt. No one will see it in the dark.”
    “ I don’t want to hurt anyone,” said Smith.
    “ They’re coming to kill you, man,” declared the British recruiter indignantly. “This is merely a small trick you’re playing on them. No need to feel guilty.”
    “ The swivel cannon, though.”
    “ We’ll fire it only if they attack the home. You’ve got to protect your family.”
    “ What if it goes off by accident?”
    “ Buck up, Smith. These people are rebels.”
    Jake let the reluctant Tory continue his debate with the devil as he snuck to the back of the house, determined that there would be no such accident. In truth, most Loyalists did not feel the qualms Smith expressed, and Jake saw some hope for him – though not if the evening proceeded as planned.
    A small lean-to was located at the back of the house, serving as the family as a summer kitchen. The voices inside the building indicated that mother and son – and at least two other children – were working on the swivel gun in the front room. Jake could easily sneak in while their attentions were turned toward the cannon and the street.
    He had brought two of his pistols with him, and he took one now from his belt. Already loaded, he wanted to use it to scare the family into submission – but only scare them, for he was loath to hurt women and children, no matter how misguided their loyalties. He therefore took the unusual expedient of removing the flint from the firing mechanism – the pistol was cocked, and except to a careful eye, would seem ready to fire. Jake could even pull the trigger, though nothing would happen. The other gun remained ready at his waist.
    Hearing noises in the distance up the road, Jake wedged his foot inside the door and eased it open, sneaking into the kitchen – and directly in front of the business end of a large, ancient, but very definitely loaded and simmering matchlock.
     
     

 
     
     
     
    -Chapter Six-
     
    Wherein, Jake finds that not all Whigs and Tories are ready enemies.
     
     
    “ D rop your weapon , sir, or you will find yourself singing in Gabriel’s choir,” said the gun’s master, the same lad who had earlier acted as advance scout.
    Jake couldn’t help but admire the young man’s spirit. He also couldn’t help but hold his arms out at a fair length, then slowly bend his knees for the ground.
    “ I’ll just set my pistol down here,” he said, placing it on the long, woven carpet before him.
    “ Now take a step away. Smartly if you please,” said the lad.
    “ As you wish,” said Jake, who stepped with his right foot off the rug — and with his left foot pulled the cloth suddenly forward, judging that the boy was too light and the floor too polished to offer much resistance. He judged correctly – and caught the lad and his gun as they flew upward.
    “ Let go of me or I’ll tell Mother!”
    “ I’ll tell her myself,” said Jake, holding the squirming lad beneath his arm like a log as he fetched and extinguished the matchlock. “I admire your bravery, but you’re expressing it on the wrong side of the fight.”
    “ My father will have you hung.”
    “ Your father will do well not to be hung himself,” said Jake, carrying the boy