by Jim DeFelice
He did not make it to the inn, however. Instead, he came upon a company of soldiers under the command of Colonel Israel Angell, members of the same unit whom Jake and the Dutchman had met the day before. The three Rhode Islanders forming the advance guard were more interested in finding food than enemy soldiers, and at first ignored what appeared to be the drunken shouts of a wayward madman. But van Clynne, even in a dazed mental state, is nothing if not persistent — he grabbed one of the young soldiers by the tatter of his worn coat and demanded to be taken immediately to his commander.
"Or there will be hell to pay! Hell to pay, and at a high interest rate!" thundered the Dutchman.
"We'll shoot you if you don't let go of Christian," said one of the privates as the main body of troops drew near.
"Shoot away!" declared van Clynne. "You will be killing as loyal a patriot as the war has ever known, but shoot! Shoot! Go ahead, do your dirty deed. I command it!"
He let go of the soldier and grabbed another's musket by the barrel, pointing it straight at his heart — or more accurately, the thick purse protecting his heart. The poor boy began trembling — he had not yet seen his sixteenth birthday, though he swore to his captain he was over eighteen.
"I do not understand why you feel obliged to cockade your hats so," said van Clynne, addressing the captain after letting go of the gun. "My friend Jake Gibbs likes to do so as well. What is it about those corners that attracts you?"
Christian, the soldier whom van Clynne had first accosted, took advantage of van Clynne's momentary interest in hats to leap on his back, hoping to wrestle him to his knees. Acting purely from reflex, with no harm intended — he made a protracted point of this later — van Clynne flipped the private over into the officer in front of him, sending them both in a tumble.
"Stop now, or we'll shoot," commanded a sergeant.
"Please," said van Clynne. "I only want to be taken to your commander. It is of utmost importance. I have papers, I know the mark of the Secret Service — it is on my companion's money belt, a Masonic symbol. He's lost it now, but I would know it if I saw it. And of course, I am Dutch, which should leave no doubt as to my allegiance. I have lately spent some time fooling the English, and done an excellent job of it — take me to your commander, I say!"
"You promise to leave off attacking us if I take you there?"
"Attack?" Van Clynne whirled around suddenly. "Who is attacking us? Where? How? Man the battlement! Rally the troops! Protect the strongboxes!"
The confusion continued for a few minutes longer, as van Clynne fought off the lingering effects of the drug. In truth, his befuddlement was mild in proportion to the strength of the concoction, and should have been of great clinical interest to the author of the potion, Major Dr. Keen.
But Keen, who not coincidentally was witnessing this spectacle from the nearby woods, was interested in something else. For the Dutchman's shouts had made it quite clear which side he was on.
"An interesting adversary," said the doctor as the troop fell back. Keen brushed some brambles from his coat and walked to his carriage, only a few hundred yards away. The size of the rebel force meant he would have to postpone apprehension of the Dutchman, but he was pleased to have determined his loyalties so easily. The man's clever antidote, whatever it was, had only shortened the effects and placed them in reverse.
"We will have to construct a most peculiar way for him to die," Keen said to Percival, directing him to hide the carriage and follow along by foot.
"You're Dutch? Then how can you be on our side?"
"How could a Dutchman be on the side of the British, who robbed our birthright, stole our land, and contaminated our best ale?" protested van Clynne as he stood before Colonel Israel Angell.
A man of average build with a light face and auburn hair nearly hidden by a dignified white wig, Colonel Angell stood straighter than a fresh ramrod as he interrogated the Dutchman in the small hovel that served as Second Rhode Island headquarters.
"No insult intended," said Angell, whose blue eyes and Roman nose gave him an almost Caesar-like presence. "But you must admit, if we were to use the Philpse family as an example — "
"The Philpses are imposters and traitors to their race," thundered van Clynne, who face turned bright red at the mention of the aristocratic family. "They stole the rights to their land from Jonkheer Van der Donck and his descendants in a most despicable manner. There is not a more criminal clan in all of New York. It grieves me to say this, sir, about a family purported to have Dutch blood in them, but if the Philpses have not made a pact with the devil, then the devil does not exist."
Van Clynne was so adamant in his denunciation that the amused Angell had to take a step backwards. A neutral observer might have found his claims somewhat exaggerated, though it cannot be denied that Frederick Philpse had lately spent time in a Connecticut jail for his impudent support of the British cause. Two hundred and seventy families, along with thirty-one slaves, lived in medieval bondage to the rapacious family, whose main house lay near the intersection of the Saw Mill and the Albany Post Road near the Hudson — a shameful situation in a democratic land, van Clynne asserted.
The squire's ire cooled when Angell asked if he would like some ale. The colonel's experience had shown that a man who began angry could be calmed by drink, while a calm one would likely undergo the opposite effect. "We have some beer brewed by a local housewife," he suggested.
More magical words could not have been uttered, and van Clynne was soon not merely calm but in jolly form. The beer was a top-fermented ale that had a deep redness to it, which under other circumstances van Clynne might have inquired after, since the only housewife in these parts who made such a brew was a certain Margaret Schenck. But business was pressing.
"You must send a detachment of soldiers to the Great Chain immediately," said van Clynne. "I have it on the best authority that the British are planning a massive attack on it this very evening."
"An attack? Who told you this?"
"None other than the Revolution's finest spy, my assistant, Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs," said van Clynne. "I sent the good man out on a mission to break up a nefarious ring of Tory salt stealers, and he came up with this piece of intelligence for me."
The reader will be spared, as Colonel Angell was not, Claus van Clynne's narrative of his role in winning the Revolution single-handedly. While Angell realized he must discount by half everything van Clynne said, that division still left plenty of concern for the chain. And so on his authority two companies of men were mustered and sent marching triple time north to the river, told explicitly to brook no interruptions or diversion, and to fight to the death anyone who threatened the defenses.
Chapter Seventeen
Wherein, Jake is an unwitting guest at a brief family reunion.
Busch rode his horse at a quick pace through the woods despite the high undergrowth and looming rocks, plunging toward a narrow road on the northeastern foot of the mountain. He wove his way downward too carefully for his speed to be the product of mere haste or excitement; Jake, struggling along behind him, realized that Busch knew these mountainous woods better than most men know their own homes. The sun was now steadily sinking, and the slant of the landscape meant the ground before them was in heavy shadow. Nonetheless, the Tory's pace continued to increase until Jake lost sight of him. With only sound to guide them, horse and rider followed blindly, branches and bushes grazing their sides as they rode. Busch was waiting at the edge of the road, his horse barely winded. "We will have to trespass on a farmer's acres to reach the chain," he said. "He'll shoot us if he sees us." "He's a rebel?" asked Jake, who was as thankful as his horse for the rest.
"It has nothing to do with the war. He's quite mad, and has been that way for ten years. This is the safest route, though, since the rebels avoid his land. It's a pitiful hard-scrabble farm, strewn with rocks and lying on a sheltered nick of the hillside. The ground is treacherous, and there are two vicious dogs. Be careful about your ho
rse. Ready?"
"Ready."
"Let's go then," said Busch, and he set off in a gallop down the road. Jake's horse was more comfortable on this comparatively level ground and he caught up with Busch. They rode side by side until they came to a field on the west side of the road. Once more the Tory dug his heels into his horse's flanks, steering the beast toward the low fence to his left. The animal bounded the rails as if they were twigs on the ground. Jake followed, urging his mount to do the same; the pair was soon flying across the dimly lit pasture toward a small orchard that overlooked the river. It was here that Jake heard the farmer's shouts, and then saw from the corner two black streaks heading in their direction.
The reader is no doubt acquainted with Hercules, who during his many labors came face to face with the giant Eurytion and his two-headed dog. The animals chasing Jake and Captain Busch had but one head apiece, yet they were nearly as fierce, snarling and snapping as they ran. They were also extremely fast, and though the two horsemen had the advantage of a head start, the pursuers gained on their winded mounts with every step.
Jake pushed his stallion faster, flattening himself against the animal's neck and urging it onward. His helmet strap broke with the jostling and the wind groped at his head, swirling its tangled fingers through his hair. The horse's body had turned hot beneath him, convulsing with each footfall, nearing the end of its endurance and strength. Jake dove tighter to its neck, trying at once to soothe it and urge it faster. The pair went over a small hedge and into an open field, but still the dogs came on. Their yaps and growls mixed with the pounding of hooves and the rush of air in Jake's ears, as if hell itself were closing behind him.
All at once he felt himself flying forward: one of the dogs had thrown itself at the stallion's legs.
The ground came up before Jake could properly prepare for it; his chin bashed hard and he felt a floating sensation in his brain.
His horse tumbled over in a somersault. It broke both its neck and a leg in the fall, but managed somehow to cling to life, screaming its agony in a wrenching whine.
The dog that had thrown itself at its legs had broken its ribs and gotten its muzzle mashed, but its venom was hardly choked; it raked its front claws on the horse's vulnerable stomach, trying to inflict more damage, unfazed by the injured animal's weak kicks.
The other dog descended on Jake, who had just risen to his knees when the demon barreled into his back. Still dazed, he had just enough sense to fall forward, trying to protect his neck. The dog raked its snout back and forth across his head, looking for an opening. These were not teeth, they were the hot fire of a glass furnace, withering all before them. The fangs slashed at the side of Jake's neck, ripping through the fleshy part of his earlobe; he just managed to duck enough to throw off the dog's aim as it clamped down, so that the animal ended up with his ponytail instead of his throat.
The hound growled as Jake shook himself free momentarily, spinning the black, furious shadow to the ground. In a flash it had rebounded back at him, stronger and more furious than ever, and for a brief second Jake felt the cold, wet sensation in the pit of his stomach he had felt only once before — on the cold cliffs near Quebec, when a redcoat's ball had taken him through the leg and he feared it was his turn to die.
But just as the animal clamped its jaws into Jake's side, a shot exploded next to his ear. The dog let go and Jake rolled backwards and onto his knees, catching his breath and steadying himself, his body still shaking from the fight.
Busch's bullet had gone straight through the animal's head. What had been a ball of fury moments before transformed instantly to a supine ball of fur lying peacefully on the ground.
Because of the ferocity of its attack, Jake would not have been surprised to find that the dog was a vicious hound bred from the wild beasts of deepest Africa. The reality was considerably different; it appeared to be one of the breed used in Scotland and Ireland to help herd sheep, an animal normally well known for its tame attitude toward humans. The warp of tyranny is not limited to human beings; all living things are twisted so strongly by it that they may turn against their own nature.
Jake's horse was writhing in agony on the ground a few yards away. He took the musket from the saddle holster and dispatched it quickly; it was the only way he could repay the animal's fine service. The stallion's murderer lay at its feet, already dead; Jake could not stop himself from smashing its skull with the butt-end of the gun in a burst of mad fury.
"Hurry," said Busch. "The farmer will be on the way with his guns. Take your weapons and jump on."
Jake threw his pistol in the saddle pouch and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed his carbine and sword and picked up the musket from the ground but then realized he couldn't carry everything and still hold on to Busch. Taking the bag and the carbine in one hand, he pulled himself up with the other, clinging to the captain's coat as they rode away.
Busch plunged down the hillside toward a stone wall. He followed that to a wooded path leading to the river. This he rode down a good distance before finally slowing, confident that the farmer was no longer following them.
"At least the bastard has lost his dogs," said Busch. "That's some consolation. Are you all right?"
"We're even now," said Jake. "You've saved my life, and I yours." In the rush of the moment, the American patriot spoke completely from the heart; he could not feel animosity toward the man, though it soon might be his duty to kill him.
"I told you," laughed Busch. "We're brothers beneath the skin."
"I hope the dogs weren't rabid." Jake winced as he felt around his torn earlobe. He was otherwise intact and not permanently harmed.
"The man looked after the animals like they were his children," said Busch. "The beasts were probably healthier than either of us."
"How do you know?"
"The man is my father," replied Busch.
Such a remark would seem to warrant an immediate explanation, but the Tory captain offered none as he guided the horse through the woods. It was clear to Jake that they had circled around the large mountain that guarded the eastern approach to the chain, so that they had landed behind it; they were now heading south toward the terminus.
The path became so narrow and the way so dark that the two men finally dismounted and left the horse tied to a tree. Using a torch was out of the question; the light would have drawn attention from the forts across the river and any Continental units nearby. Given the desolate hillside they were now approaching, even a half-sleeping sentry would realize anything brighter than a firefly was out of place.
"My sister and I walked this path many nights," said Busch, stopping suddenly. "We loved to sneak down to the river when the moon was out and take a midnight swim. My parents would have beaten us to an inch of our lives if they'd found out — that was part of the attraction, I suspect. Here we climb down the rocks. It's steep but it will save us considerable time. Can you handle this?" "Yes." "Leave your carbine. It'll only get in the way. There are no guards at the edge of the chain." "Are you sure?"
"We were above here, see?" Busch pointed in the dark. "It was the first thing I looked for. Besides, a sentry would have a small fire. There's still a bit of light on the river, but the land is dark."
"Perhaps they're waiting for us."
"If they're that clever," said Busch, starting down, "they deserve to capture us. Come on now, be your brave self. You've passed the rough part."
Jake nodded. He was not going down unarmed — he quickly and carefully tucked his uncocked but loaded pistol in his belt at the front of his pants. The Segallas, meanwhile, was secured beneath his shirt; the elk knife lay in its sheath tucked into his boot.
As Busch had boasted earlier, there were no guards on the eastern terminus of the chain because the terrain was so nearly impassable. Certainly the only reason Jake was able to descend to the shoreline a few hundred yards upstream from it was the fact that he had a guide who had been slinking down this way since childhood. Even so, the last hun
dred feet to the river bank were nearly as frightening as the tumble on the ground under the dog's fangs. The rocks were wet and slimy, covered with spray as well as vegetation. Jake felt his foot give way, and only Busch's strong arms, grabbing Jake as he slid past, saved him.
"Don't fall," whispered Busch. "The rocks at the bottom are as sharp as ax heads."
It seemed beyond belief that children would come this way, but then in innocence everyone is brave.
"It's much easier if you have small hands and feet," said Busch, as if hearing Jake's thoughts. "You can poke them into the crevices. Takes longer, though."
The river was gently tickling the shoreline, eliciting a soft murmur from the rocks. Jake went slower and slower as his guide went faster and faster; the distance widened between them over the last twenty treacherous feet, and the disguised patriot reached bottom a full five minutes after his guide.
Bush was standing at the edge of the water. Just as Jake was about to apologize for taking so long, the captain waved his hand in front of his face and pointed out to the river. It was a moment or two before Jake could make out the shadow three-quarters of the way across.
It was a whaleboat, patrolling the water just north of the chain. The men inside were resting silently.
Busch and Jake stood like statues on the rocks for a minute that seemed like three hours. The night grew immeasurably colder in that time, dampness welling into the air. A fog began to form and the last hint of twilight disappeared. Jake's ears adjusted to the stillness so well he could hear the whispers of the soldiers in the boat, or thought he could; certainly he heard the order, "All right then, back to the fort." The oars slipped into the water and the shadow receded into the larger blackness.
"A last patrol as the sun finally sets," noted Busch. "Just before they light the watch fires, I suspect." He started picking his way along the bank. "That will be easy to time. Hold on to the tail of my coat. Be very careful."
