by Jim DeFelice
"Your wife is sleeping," Jake told Lord William. "I found it necessary to give her a blow to the head, but there should be no permanent damage. At least she will stay out of the line of fire."
"My guards will be on you in a minute," promised Clayton.
"We have replaced your guards," said Jake. "Our men are just now disposing of them. Your best course is to surrender; we will spare your lives."
"I hardly expect, much less would I even accept, mercy from a rebel."
Jake shrugged and continued to survey the room for some implement or distraction that would change the precarious equation.
Egans made the first move. He had his eyes trained on Jake's guard, and when the servant began moving toward the window to see where the shots were coming from, he crashed against Clayton Bauer with the force of an angry bear. Bauer's bullet flew into the ceiling — but only after it punched a wide hole in Egans's bare chest.
Jake dove to the ground as the servant and sailor shot at each other, the servant's bullet crashing straight through the sailor's heart, killing him instantly. Dewey's aim was just as true, for in that same moment his bullet flew into his enemy's mouth, exploding with gore through the back of his head.
Jake jumped to his feet, Segallas in hand. He grabbed Lord William and fired a single shot directly into his temple. The bullet was too small to kill him instantly, and so the nobleman slumped to the floor, leaving his life to ebb slowly from him.
The patriot spy turned and found Bauer descending on him, wielding his pistol like a hatchet. Jake took a blow at the side of the neck as he shot the Segallas point blank into the Tory's shoulder.
The blow stung Bauer back to the couch.
"Where is Howe going?" Jake demanded, flipping the barrel mechanism around so two fresh bullets were ready to fire.
"Never," promised Bauer. He threw his gun at Jake, who ducked instinctively, choosing not to fire. If he did not succeed in getting Howe's destination, all of these deaths, and his entire mission, would be in vain.
The Tory took this chance to grab another pistol from its panel at the back of the chair where he was sitting.
Jake dove at him before he could aim. As the two men crashed back and forth, the muscles in Jake's body cried out in despair, every injury inflicted over the past few days renewing itself. Half his body was covered in sticky blood.
Bauer surprised Jake by sinking his teeth deep into his arm — apparently the tactic ran in the family. The pain was so desperate the spy felt the hard shock in his backbone. Jake retaliated by punching the Tory with his head, moving him back but not loosening his grip on the pistol. Both men had their fingers on the trigger; both had their other hand on the barrel, flailing in a desperate struggle to aim or divert its fatal ball.
Suddenly, one of the fingers succeeded in slipping against the trigger, igniting the lock.
Whose finger it was, neither could tell. In the pure moment of silence that followed, it did not matter. Both men felt as if they had been transported, plucked from the tormenting fires of hell and deposited in the sweet clover hills of Oblivion.
And then Clayton Bauer's body fell limp, and Jake Gibbs fell back, the smoking pistol dangling from his bloody hand.
Daltoons's men had succeeded in surprising and dismounting the English soldiers, but he could see his troop was outnumbered and greatly outgunned. They had only enough shot and powder to keep on for a few minutes more; already he had lost two of his dozen men. Redcoat reinforcements kept appearing up the road. While the patriots had good firing positions, in command of the highway and the well-tended field before it, a concerted charge by the British would easily overwhelm them.
"Ames, you go back to the house and get them the hell out of there," said Daltoons. "We'll hold out as best we can."
Ames, realizing this might be the last time he saw his commander, nodded gravely, but hesitated a moment before putting down his rifle.
"Go, man," ordered Daltoons, and the young man was off, running down the hill.
It could well be that the moment of regret at leaving his friends cost him his life. For as he neared the house, a British sniper who had managed to infiltrate the woods spotted him, and with a single bullet sent his poor soul scurrying to Saint Peter's well-trod gate.
Jake rose and surveyed the battered room, littered with bodies. Once again he had failed, his finely crafted trick as useless as a child's game. But just as he was about to curse himself and all his damnable cleverness, he realized Egans was still alive. He bent over him and saw the wound was, fatal; the red man born white would die in a matter of minutes, if not seconds.
"You must not try to speak," Jake said gently. He pulled the front of Egans's coat together, covering the bullet hole. "The ball has taken you through the lungs. You are a brave man and true to your word; I am sorry that I did not trust you before now."
"I had not earned it," said Egans, lifting his head. "I do not fear death. The sky has already closed around me. Howe is on his way to Philadelphia." He began to cough blood. "He told his brother."
"Philadelphia," Jake repeated.
"Yes," said Egans. "He said so freely. Father!"
The last word was uttered in the nature of a hoarse shout, emerging from his lips at the very moment his soul passed on. Jake followed the corpse's gaze across the room — right to Lady Patricia, who stood at the doorway with a rifle in her hands.
Chapter Forty-six
Wherein, the old adage, “Better late than never,” is proven true.
Claus van Clynne’s journey across the Hudson had been delayed by the contingencies of negotiation and logic, to wit: the squire could not understand why the ferryman deemed it necessary to increase the standard fee an extra two shillings, due to the fact the British were now in control of the Manhattan coast.
"If you do not understand that, then I shall charge you three extra shillings, to cover the cost of my lesson," retorted the ferryman.
The negotiations proceeded at length until Alison dug into her own purse and tossed the man his extra two shillings. Van Clynne did not like this, but he nonetheless saw no reason not to get into the vessel while he complained.
While the Dutchman had spent considerable time on the water of late, his characteristic fear of the waves had not abated. Thus his eyes were closed firmly, and covered with his hands besides, when the vessel touched the rocks a hundred yards or so north of the point where Jake and the others had come in.
"They're shooting!" said Alison as the boat scraped onto the shore. "Look! Redcoats are coming over the hill. We must warn Jake!"
She was out and running before van Clynne could even open his eyes. The Dutchman's admonition that she halt might just as well have been uttered at the sky. Cursing, he turned to the ferryman and told him he must wait for his return.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I told you to," said van Clynne, reaching beneath his shirt for a purse. "And because I will give you a fresh ten-pound note if you are here when I get back."
"For that amount of money, I would wait for Satan himself."
"Satan would not pay you nearly as well," grunted van Clynne as he got out of the boat. He rushed up the shore to the two guards who were posted near the Sons of Liberty's boats.
"Come with me quickly," he ordered.
"The hell we will," said one of the men. "Throw up your hands you British dog, or I'll kill you where you stand."
"I'm van Clynne, you idiot. Don't you hear the gunfire? Why did you let the girl go on without a weapon?"
"Jesus, Jack, it's the fat Dutchman who is always complaining. Someone's snatched his beard away."
Under ordinary circumstances, van Clynne would have demanded to know by whose definition he was being declared fat. But there was no time to waste; he pushed down the man's gun and bade him follow up to the house.
"Our orders were to stay and guard the boats."
"Were your orders to let the rest of the party die in the meantime? Come on then, and follow
me. Honestly, there was a time when enlisted men showed initiative. I hope your muskets are loaded with double shot, at least."
Spent gunpowder and smoke filled the room with a hazy gray air. Jake and Lady Patricia stood alone above a sea of blood and dead bodies. Her dressing gown was still unclasped; were it not for the rifle, she might appear an angel or one of the Fates, come to account for the dead.
Jake held his arms out calmly. "Lady Patricia, I had hoped you would not come to harm."
"Those are empty words," said the woman. "You have killed my entire family."
"I did not kill your son. Your brother-in-law and husband chose their own paths."
"It is the same. You rebels have no care for honor or the rule of law. I did not understand my brother until now."
"But we do. That is why we are fighting, as anyone who stays in this country more than a few weeks will learn. I do not mean to offer false hope, but if your son was not accounted for, it may be because he escaped alive. Perhaps he has deserted."
"I hardly think the son of a peer would run away from battle."
"He wouldn't be the first. He was a young man, and Justice is a strong mistress."
Tears were beginning to well in her eyes, but Lady Patricia was resolute. She lifted up the gun and with her thumb, reached to pull back the trigger.
"Jake!"
He dove to the side. Lady Bauer was pushed to the floor by a body leaping across the threshold onto her back.
Jake rolled to his feet and plucked the still-loaded rifle from the floor. He had to grab Alison as she aimed a blow at the noblewoman's head.
"She was going to kill you," cried the girl.
"It's all right, Alison." He gave her the rifle, then reached down and gently touched the poor woman's heaving body.
"Kill me, kill me," she sobbed. "I want to die."
Outside, the gunfire was getting closer — and thicker.
"I was not lying about your son," said Jake, still crouched over her. "And I promise to ask General Washington about him."
She made no acknowledgment that she had heard him. Jake stood over the prostrate, grief-ridden body. He knew many patriot women who had been made widows from this war; he felt no less for her than them.
Alison, standing at his side, saw the gentle way he knelt back and patted the Tory woman's shoulder. She remembered what Mrs. Hulter had told her of love — and in that instant despaired. The girl threw down the gun on the couch and walked out of the house in a cloud.
She was nearly run over by van Clynne in the hallway.
"There you are, as usual, dallying with the distaff while there is considerable work to be done," announced the Dutchman in a huff as he entered the room. "We are under attack. Our forces are retreating to the perimeter of the house."
"I'm leaving," said Jake, rising. He stopped short as he turned. "Where is your beard?"
"I doffed it as a disguise," said the Dutchman.
"You look like a new man," said Jake, scooping up his Segallas and grabbing the rifle. "Come. We have what we came for, thanks to your friend Egans."
The battle outside was proceeding with great fury, as Daltoons attempted to beat the slowest retreat possible. His men were doughty volunteers, fully imbibed with the spirit of Freedom, brave souls all. But no manner of rhetorical flourish can overcome the fact that they were over-matched.
The British, sensing their superiority, advanced with an aggressive haste that gave Daltoons an idea. Loading his musket and pistol with double shot, he directed his men to continue their withdrawal past the house. He then hid himself in a thick bush as the British continued their advance.
The thick woods and rough terrain made it impossible to proceed as a line, despite the English officers’ efforts. Bayonets drawn, but still occasionally stopping to fire, the redcoats continued down the hill.
The young lieutenant let the British vanguard, perhaps six men in all, pass him before he opened fire. He chose his first victim well, smashing the skull of a British lieutenant with both bullets from his double-packed musket. The shot from his pistol was borne of desperation, but no less accurate. He caught the company sergeant in the chest as the man aimed a shot in revenge. With great war whoops and hosannas, Daltoons gave the general impression that a full squad of men were launching a surprise counterattack.
The redcoats who had advanced down the hillside now had to retreat and deal with this new problem in their flank, or risk being cut off. The main company, meanwhile, immediately sought cover, having seen two of their leaders cut down by the troop of sharpshooters in the wood.
The feint relieved the pressure on his men and would give Jake and the others in the house a chance to escape. But Daltoons had suddenly made himself the acute object of redcoat desire. He dove over the large rock wall that marked the former edge of Bauer's property just as a fresh volley of musket balls punctuated the woods around him.
The lieutenant still had two small pistols in his belt, both loaded, assuming the charges had not been dislodged by his rough travel. Without bothering to check, he took one in his hand and began making his way along the wall toward the river as quickly as possible, half-crouching, half-running.
The woods and brambles, to say nothing of the smoke from their weapons, obscured the redcoats' vision and allowed Daltoons to gain a good lead before they realized where he was. Gradually, the Englishmen figured out that the attack at their side was merely a distraction. Endeavoring to overcome its effects, they redoubled their assault, though handicapped by the loss of their lieutenant and sergeant.
As Daltoons reached the back garden of the mansion, they were testing the defenses at the perimeter on the other side of the house. Not hearing any gunfire, he leapt over the wall and began racing for the lawn overlooking the river. In truth, he thought the American side of the operation had by now concluded, and feared he would reach the river too late to join the boats. He had ceased worrying about being shot; indeed, he had ceased worrying about anything, focusing entirely on the river.
As he reached the path that led down to the water’s edge, the lieutenant became aware of two distinctly different objects in his periphery: the figure of a redcoat sharpshooter taking aim at the woodside ten yards from the mansion's front door, and a considerably more demure, willowy figure, walking as if in a daze from behind the brick wall out onto the lawn.
He recognized Alison, full in the aim of the redcoated demon and his gun.
Chapter Forty-seven
Wherein, bravery proves stronger than love, and vice versa.
Ten yards might just as well have been ten miles, as far as the accuracy of the small pistol in Daltoon’s hand was concerned. But the young lieutenant had no time to worry about that; indeed, he had no time to worry at all.
"Death to all redcoats!" he screamed, charging the sharpshooter. In the same motion he fired his pistol.
The bullet sailed well wide of its mark, but its effect was precisely what Daltoons wished. The Briton turned and fired not at Alison but at the blur attacking him.
"Mark!" shouted Alison as Daltoons fell to the earth, the side of his chest punctured by the wound. The spell that had taken hold of her vanished as she ran to the man who had just saved her life.
"I'm all right," he gasped. "The gun, the gun in my belt."
Alison looked up and saw the redcoat who had cut down Daltoons advancing with his bayonet. She grabbed the pistol and with a steady hand pulled back the lock at its side to fire.
Nothing happened. Whether the charge was knocked out by Daltoons's efforts or fouled by his blood, the effect was the same. Alison and the lieutenant were defenseless.
It took the redcoat a moment to recover his breath from the sudden fright of being faced down by a pistol. "So, rebel, you thought you would kill me," he said, gripping his rifle so he could take a good plunge with the bayonet.
Retreat was cut off by the wall behind her, but in any event, Alison would not have left Daltoons. She threw down the gun and put her hands defi
antly to her hips as she rose. "You're awful damn talky for a private," she said.
"I will show you the difference between talk and action, you damn rebel," said the Briton, preparing to lunge. "You will repent your tart tongue."
A shot rang out as the man started forward. The bullet took his head and snapped it sideways in a grotesque spiral toward death.
"Her tongue is her best feature by far, I think," said Jake Gibbs, vaulting over the wall. The rifle in his hand was still smoking.
* * *
Jake and company managed to make their boats well ahead of the British patrol, which was delayed by its need to search and secure the mansion. The ferryman hired by van Clynne now proved his patriotism, getting not only his vessel but the others started into the water as the Americans dove into the river. The man was soon humming a healthy tune, leading the tiny armada around a crag which cut off their pursuers' aim.
Halfway to Jersey, the patriots paused to take stock. Daltoons had lost several of his men, and the young lieutenant lamented not merely their passing but the fact that their bodies had been left unburied.
"You're lucky you're not dead yourself," said Jake. "Let me see your chest there."
"It's not even a scratch," protested the lieutenant.
"It needs to be examined," said Alison, pulling aside his coat to do so.
There was not a large amount of blood. A bullet had wedged itself at the side of Daltoons's ribs; though doubtlessly painful, it did not threaten his life.
"It can be plucked out with a knife," said Alison. "I have performed the operation before. All we require is a bit of fire."
"And a good strong dose of whiskey," advised Jake. "You will be back in good health after a little rest. And perhaps some nursing. I sense you have a volunteer." He was not surprised to notice that both the lieutenant and Alison blushed. "Though I believe she is supposed to be elsewhere on Manhattan at the moment."
