by Jim DeFelice
The rocks were slippery, but twisted trees and other brush gave them handholds, and they soon were within a hundred yards of the chain. The logs holding it up creaked continually, moaning under the weight of the iron and complaining of the tide. The chain itself creaked like hinges on a door, except that the sound was multiplied many times; the effect was something like a team of waterwheels might make, if built entirely of iron and made to operate at an excruciatingly slow speed, each squeak and creak amplified by a succession of paper tubes.
The chain links had been finished and placed in the water the previous November. At first, the current proved so strong that they snapped and were pulled downstream. Finally, the engineer for the project, Lieutenant Thomas Machin, realized that with certain slight modifications, the chain would hold if placed on a diagonal from its western terminus, in effect running with the strongest current.
It happened that Jake had met Machin in Boston a few years before; the lieutenant had been among the "Indians" engaged in the famous tea party. Their acquaintanceship was extremely brief, and would not amount to much now — Machin was undoubtedly in a warm bed on the opposite shore, while Jake was starting to shiver with the cold on these rocks.
Busch stopped in front of him, and Jake realized he was studying something on the ground, unrelated to the chain.
"Come on," he said finally, pulling off his coat. "We shall see if the links are of equal strength and look for obstructions. We'll go out on the river."
Before Jake could protest, Captain Busch took off his boots and dove into the river, aiming for the heavy chain and its log support bobbing a few leagues out in the water. He moved quickly, as if afraid to dwell along the shoreline.
Jake would have much preferred to stay there, but saw no way to do so without being branded a coward. It seemed foolhardy to swim out in the darkness and climb aboard a fitful line of wheezing rafts. Yet had he stopped and thought about it, he would have realized he'd done many less rational things in the name of Freedom — Jake quickly stripped to his breeches and shirt, leaving his guns in his boots. Armed only with the knife, which he tucked inside his belt, he got down on his hands and knees and half-stumbled, half-swam off the rocks toward the dark iron backbone of the Americans' river defense.
Three yards out and the water grabbed him with a sudden jolt, hurling him downstream at the obstruction.
"Keep your hands ahead of you," shouted Busch, who'd already reached the chain. "Use your hands on the logs."
Easily said, but as strong as Jake was, he had trouble with the tricky eddy in the frigid water, just managing to get his arms up in front of his body as he hit the raft support about mid-chest. With a loud groan, he pulled himself onto the logs, grateful to get at least part of his body out of the sharp and icy current.
"Imagine the riptides further out," said Busch, standing over him.
"Thanks, but I'll leave that to you."
"Those must be the fire rafts," Busch whispered, pointing across toward Fort Montgomery. The hulking log boats were framed in front of a series of sentry fires the night patrols had just lit to keep themselves warm by the chilly river.
"The fires make it difficult for them to see us," said Busch. "And besides, who would suspect that anyone had snuck out onto the river? We can rest here for a while. Look at how thick this chain is."
"It seems very strong," said Jake, sinking his hand down to feel around the iron. The metal pieces were just under two inches thick, folded into links. "How are we going to break them?"
"We'll manage," said Busch.
Jake thought of several possibilities — an explosive charge, a hammer and chisel, an immense file. Each had its difficulties — but none were impossible.
"At least the boom has not been constructed," said Busch. "Come, there was a float damaged further out a month ago; let's see if it has been repaired."
As Jake followed into the vast hollow between the banks, his thoughts turned to increasing the chain's protection. The farmer's land could be occupied, and some way found to place a guard on the shoreline where they had descended. Instead of sending a rowboat out on a precursory inspection, several small boats would have to be posted on twenty-four-hour guard. A vessel should be stationed in the middle of the river, with lookouts on each side — and sharpshooters, too, so another mission such as this one would prove fatal.
The log rafts were spaced and constructed unevenly, so that even if they had not been shuddering back and forth, moving on them would have been haphazard at best. Nonetheless, Jake soon developed a method of proceeding that was a cross between crawling and swimming, and if it were not for the cold waves — while it was June, this water had originated high in the Catskill mountains weeks if not months before — he might have been tempted to enjoy his foray. The sensation of being nearly naked on the river, without boat or paddle, was like none he had experienced. He began to wonder if mermaids' calls to sailors might not be made out of their innocent bliss, for truly to float atop the water unfettered must seem like an ecstasy one could only wish to share with all around.
Busch had stopped ahead on a raft that had been used as a workman's station. He sat cross-legged with the water lapping at his thighs, as if he were some new species of waterborne Indian chief.
"There's a float just to our right that is missing some logs," he said when Jake arrived. His voice seemed far away.
"Will we attack there?"
If Busch heard Jake's words, he did not acknowledge them. "My sister died at the spot where we entered the water," he answered instead. "That is why my father became a madman."
His voice had a distant quality that made it sound as if he were talking about something he had read, rather than lived.
"We came down here one night when my sister was thirteen. I was twelve. It was a brilliant harvest moon that night, and the water was warm. You would not know it from tonight, but the Hudson is often warm, most warm — you feel as if you are swimming in a bath.
"She slipped, and hit her head on the rocks. Her body came down all the way and fell into the river, but the current was not hard, and it washed up there, near where they have fastened the chain. If it were light we might even see the rock where I found her.
"I called for hours, hoping. When I found her body, I just… held her, hoping she would be alive, that it was a dream, a terrible dream."
Chapter Eighteen
Wherein, Jake and the captain return to shore, with poor consequences.
The two men sat without speaking, the sounds from the far shore drifting over with the wind. Jake heard the guards grumbling curses about the food and weak tea. Where was the rum, one man asked.
"My mother threw herself off the rocks six months later," said Busch quietly. "My father has been twisted ever since. It's a pitiful story, isn't it, Smith? A cursed man and a cursed family."
As strongly as he reminded himself that the man sitting near him was an enemy engaged on a mission aimed at the heart of his country, Jake could not help but feel a pang of pity and even regret. There must be some way of converting this tortured and yet worthy soul to the Cause of Freedom, screamed Jake's heart. His head answered firmly that no such chance could be taken. Soon, the circumstances would demand that Busch be killed, or if not killed, arrested, which would amount to the same thing — any patriot court would surely hang him.
He should be killed here, now; it would be a mercy.
"Come on," said Busch, moving toward him, "we must be getting back. Our mission here is complete."
The Tory captain touched Jake's shoulder, unaware of the argument raging inside him. Jake looked up and caught the reflection of friendship in his eyes, and that as much as anything decided him — if he did not act now, he might never do so. But as he was about to toss the Tory over the side of the raft, he realized he did not yet know when or how the attack would be launched, and just as the Tories had gone on without Johnson, they would undoubtedly go on without Busch.
Whether the argument would have h
eld him back under other circumstances, it did so now; Jake silently followed Busch toward shore.
The night had grown even colder, and the patriot felt his teeth starting to chatter. A good bottle of rum would be most welcome now, or even some of his friend van Clynne's favorite ale.
The rafts rocked more violently the closer they got to shore. Now the dark shadows that loomed ahead assumed eerie shapes of children and women, long arms grabbing out toward them, hair floating in the murky water. Jake stumbled on the wet wood, and for a moment felt the cold grip of the night plunge its icy fingers inside his chest and grab at his heart.
He lost his balance and fell forward into the water, his head crashing against the stone like hardness of the barrier. He struggled, but in the darkness he slipped beneath the logs, and now found his way to the surface barred. In the dark water he saw the faces of the men he had watched die: his friend Captain Thomas, Lieutenant Colmbs, Horace Brown, and a host of nameless fellow patriots and countless British swam in the river, their souls seeking the shore. He already had swallowed two mouthfuls of water when he felt a sudden force take him and thrust him sideways, as if God himself had intervened to save him and preserve the Cause.
Not God, but Busch. The Tory hauled him to the surface and then paddled on his back to the shore, dragging Jake behind like a helpless child.
"Thank you," the American spy managed after he had finally cleared the water from his lungs.
"Now you owe me a life," said Busch cheerfully. "Come, we've made a bit more noise than we ought to have."
They walked back along the shoreline to their clothes and boots without waiting for their breeches to dry. The path they had taken down was too treacherous to climb up in the dark; Busch took his pistols and prodded Jake to follow him as he walked northward.
The action of the tides here had produced a small ledge of sand along the waterside, punctuated by large boulders and debris. The way was not easy, and Jake worried that it would take so long he would miss his rendezvous with van Clynne. He wondered also if Putnam had increased the defenses, though he realized that the diversions and the geography would conspire to leave any simple multiplication of forces impotent against the Tory designs. Indeed, if the attack were launched from this direction, an entire army could be waiting south of the chain, with about as much value as a barnful of milkless cows.
"This will bring us out near the road, and we will have to sneak back through my father's orchard to get to the horse," Busch said when they finally left the shoreline. "It is in full view of the house, but he will be sleeping by now. In any event, he is much less fearsome without his dogs. Perhaps I should have killed them years ago."
Jake had hardly taken two steps before he sank in mud well over his ankle. If Busch was following a path through this swamp, he failed to see it, yet the Tory captain made quick progress, turning and stopping every few minutes to let Jake catch up.
"It's only a bit more through this," said Busch. "Then we have solid ground and a hill."
"Are we bringing the forces through this swamp when we attack tomorrow?" asked Jake.
"No, the attack will be on the water," confided Busch. "Only a small force will go against the chain itself; our rangers and the marines will land near Peekskill as a diversion. I will explain it all, in good time. Let's go."
Jake now had all the information he needed about the Tory plan, and no excuse not to kill Busch. But how could he murder a man who only minutes before had saved him from drowning?
Jake followed along quietly until he caught his foot in the muck and fell face first into the swamp. He was by now so cold his joints felt frozen solid. "I hope we will have some device that allows us to see in the dark when we attack tomorrow night," he said, righting himself.
"You are starting to sound like a complainer, Smith," said Busch. "What happened to the brave man I found at the tavern?"
"He got cold and hungry, and a good deal wet."
"We'll be by a fire soon enough," said Busch. "If we cannot find a hospitable inn, we've only to return to Stoneman's."
Finally they reached dry ground. The Tory captain started up the steep incline like an African monkey. Jake made better progress here, and found that the quick pace warmed him. They soon reached a lane, and began walking south once more.
"This path leads to the road in front of the house. The roadway is just around that turn," said Busch, whose steps started to slow.
"Do you ever think of confronting your father, and asking his forgiveness?"
"I have, many times," said Busch. "He does not seem to recognize me. Something in his head has broken, and he would as soon shoot as say a word. He has tried to shoot me, in fact."
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than they heard noises ahead. Busch put up his hand and motioned Jake toward the trees at the side of the roadway. They waited in the darkness for a moment, then began slowly creeping forward.
Jake now wanted an opportunity to leave Busch without arousing his suspicions; he planned to go to his rendezvous with van Clynne, then return to Stoneman's and sabotage the plans as a member of the troop. The noises were just the thing — Busch's father must have come out to avenge his dogs' death. But Busch's father wasn't waiting for them around the bend. Claus van Clynne and a detachment of Rhode Islanders were. "There they are, men! Capture the Tory traitors so we can wrap them in tissue for General Putnam!" "I see one!" "Watch, there's a whole brigade of them behind!" "Halt or we fire! Halt, I say!"
The reader undoubtedly will credit Claus van Clynne with great mental powers of prognostication for his ability to scope the precise point where Jake and his Tory captain would emerge from their spying jaunt. The Dutchman would do his best to encourage this, though the true story of his fortuitous arrival at this juncture of our story is less flattering. For Colonel Angell had grown tired of van Clynne's endless diatribe regarding the conduct of the war, and had sought to get him out of his wigged hair by assigning him and a squad of men to the spot along the river he felt least likely to be attacked. In fact, the colonel might have had some hope that old man Busch — well known to the patriot commanders, if only from a distance — might be provoked into taking several shots at the Dutchman. Not that Angell wished him any real harm, but van Clynne provoked in him that double reaction he so often had on people — on the one hand, his service to the Cause of Freedom was indispensable and undeniable, and on the other hand, he had a way about him so annoying even the mildest of Jesus’ apostles might be tempted toward murder.
The soldiers who had accompanied van Clynne to the area seized the opportunity to attack the shadowy figures ahead at least partly because they had grown tired of the Dutchman's lecture on the possibilities of screw-fitted breech-loading rifles. Thus their attack was premature, and both Busch and Jake were able to duck back safely into the woods, escaping their ill-aimed fire.
Unaware that van Clynne was nearby, Jake ran next to Busch when the firing started, but gradually began to drop back. A bullet whizzed dangerously close to him in the underbrush, and he dove to his right, getting an armful of prickle weeds as his reward.
"Smith?"
"I'm all right," he hissed at Busch, rising to his feet.
"This way," said the Tory captain. "Go straight over the hill. I'll wait for you there if we get separated. Forget about the horse. I know where there are others."
Jake continued to stumble forward, letting Busch increase his lead. The fire from the Continentals — who surely could not see well enough to aim, except at the noise — was remarkably hot and dangerously close. He wanted to make his feigned escape attempt look convincing, but not so convincing that he was wounded, and so Jake found it necessary to run further into the woods than he otherwise would have wished.
At length, he realized he had lost Busch. But as there was no way of knowing whether the captain was hiding in the shadows just a few feet away, he had to arrange his capture carefully. He continued to move in the general direction the Tory had indicated, me
andering as if lost. The troops, meanwhile, had brought up torches and spread out to search the woods. A throb from his knee, which had been injured a few days before, suggested a perfect plan — he would complain about the knee loudly when found, in case Busch should overhear.
If Jake was unaware of van Clynne's presence, the Dutchman was equally ignorant of his quarry's identity. He had been left alone by the roadside, without even a flint to light the wood gathered for a fire, when his troop first ran to investigate the noises in the woods.
"Probably just a raccoon," grumbled the Dutchman to the darkness. But when it became clear that his men weren't returning, he decided to set out after them. He was quite surprised when he found the company — or one member, at least — almost immediately, walking straight into the soldier and knocking him to the ground.
Or would have, except that the man was bigger even than van Clynne, and so it was the Dutchman who found himself floundering in the dust, propelled there not merely by the surprise of having walked into the man but by a sharp blow as well. "You idiot, I'm on your side," said the Dutchman. "Help me up. Come on, be quick about it." "Do as he says, Phillip. After all, it would be too easy to kill him here." The voice had a sickeningly familiar ring to it, instantly recognized by van Clynne. It belonged to Major Dr. Keen.
Chapter Nineteen
Wherein, Jake becomes acquainted with the inside of a patriot jail.
It took the Rhode Islanders nearly a half hour to find Jake in the dark underbrush. By that time, he had decided to take off his green coat, following the theory that a real Tory would have done so, trying to escape as a civilian. Still fearful that Busch was hiding nearby, Jake not only groaned about his knee but noisily protested that he had done nothing wrong. He submitted to a search, which turned up his pistol and elk-handled knife, though not the Segallas, thanks to Jake's loud complaints that he would freeze if made to turn over the waistcoat where it was hidden. Eventually, he was allowed to keep the vest, and led from the dark woods in his damp breeches.
