The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  It was the nadir of Claus van Clynne's earthly existence. He stood before the world landless and penniless, bereft of all possessions.

  But do we not exaggerate? After all, the Dutchman is known to have stores of money throughout the province, and considerable credit besides. True, he has a considerable pile of bills owed to lawyers and others, all connected with his thus far unsuccessful attempts to win back his family property. But the assets of the van Clynne clan have never been measured in mere financial terms. Forget the rings around his fingers, or the silver buttons- disguised by cheap gold paint-on his vest and coat: the true worth of Claus van Clynne can never be measured by his money, but by the fertile workings of his Dutch brain. For who else in the entire province could turn such a catastrophic loss so quickly into a potential for further gain?

  At least that is how he consoled himself when he hoisted himself aboard one of the carriage horses and trotted behind the determined young Rose, who had resumed her mission to General Putnam.

  "I would say that your arrival was timely, indeed, but I would not go so far as to say that it was essential to my well-being. In fact, I would posit that had you not arrived when you did, I would right now be concluding my interrogation of my captor on several points of interest."

  "And what would those be?"

  "With all due respect, young miss, I do not think matters of high intelligence should be blabbed about on the common roadways where anyone can hear. It is but a few minutes to dawn, and I expect the entire countryside is already awake around us."

  Van Clynne shifted uncomfortably on the horse. He did not like riding without a saddle and the beast seemed to like it even less, shaking its head and hesitating even though the pace was an easy one.

  "You were covered with leeches when I arrived. You would have bled to death."

  "Hardly. As a matter of fact, the bleeding was quite a tonic," said van Clynne. "I have been feeling too sanguine of late."

  "You said you were feeling ill a minute ago."

  "A good portion of my fortune has vanished in those flames," said van Clynne. "But there is no need to sulk. I intend on pressing my claims before General Putnam for full reimbursement, as the money was destroyed by enemy forces while I was engaged on a lawful mission for His Excellency General Washington — "

  "Piffle."

  "A lawful mission and I am entitled to full recovery, as designated by congressional act and amply illustrated by precedents dating to the Romans. I shall call on you to testify; it is the least you can do, given your role in my personal disaster."

  "I saved your life! You are an ingrate!"

  "I am not ungrateful for your exertions," said the Dutchman. "I am merely pointing out that they did not come without a price. As you are young, and therefore open to impressions, I have endeavored to give you the full picture of the situation, so that you may hereafter improve yourself. It is called learning, and a child such as yourself should be thankful for it. Now, if you were Dutch — "

  "Dutch?"

  "A Dutch girl has a certain education from the womb. I do not mean to criticize your parentage, since it is not a manner of choice for the most part. And I have had stout ale brewed by an Irish housewife that ranks with the best of them," added van Clynne. That was near the highest compliment he could pay, though of course Rose did not know it. "But on the whole, on the average that is, the Dutch — do not take this wrongly, but a Dutch girl in your place would not have let my notes lie burning on the bench, for example."

  Rose pulled her horse short and turned to confront her new companion. "I will take this abuse no longer," she warned.

  "Abuse?" Van Clynne was not used to being addressed in such a tone by anyone, let alone a waif of a girl. Still, he was in a most generous mood — the bloodletting had removed many of the heavier humors from his body. "Dear, I am afraid you misunderstand me. I am not criticizing you, but praising you."

  "Colonel Gibbs said you would complain about everything from your horse to the weather. But he did not say I should stand still for personal attacks. Remember I am armed, sir, with his own pistol." "Have you heard me utter one word of complaint the entire time we have been together?" "Hardly," she said satirically. "I rest my case," said the Dutchman, prodding his horse to continue.

  Van Clynne could not stay quiet, of course, but he turned his discourse to more neutral topics, settling on the state of the roads. He explained they had grown considerably more dusty since the British took stewardship of the area from the Dutch, and indeed were now in such an advanced state of ruin the wilden would hardly consider them cleared sufficiently for a planting of corn.

  "Here we are," said van Clynne as they reached a fork. "To the right."

  "No, this is the road to the general's headquarters," said Rose.

  "Obviously in the dim light your tender eyes were momentarily clouded. Blink them twice, and follow me on the proper path."

  "Your way heads east, mine is west. The Peek Skill Creek is west, is it not? And the general's headquarters in the village that lies near it?"

  "The general's headquarters is indeed in the village near the creek," said van Clynne. "But we are not fish. My road will lead us to a shortcut and thence to another and a third. We will arrive in an hour at most."

  "This will take us back to the Post Road," countered Rose. "And even a flying horse would take two hours to get to the general."

  "Indeed. And we will be here all morning if you do not respect your elders and do as I say. Come." The Dutchman kicked his horse for the first time since he had boarded. The animal was so surprised he turned his head back to see if perhaps he had gotten a new master.

  "My way," said the girl firmly, starting down it.

  Now if there is one thing Claus van Clynne is truly and justly praised for, it is his knowledge of the road system of the province of New York. Indeed, the Dutchman has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the highways and byways of the eastern half of the continent, and could find his way from Georgia to Vincennes with little difficulty. He especially prided himself on his intimate familiarity with shortcuts; if there was a way to cut five minutes off a route, he not only knew it but could point to an alley shaving another two.

  Nor was his ability failing him here, though he might have admitted under different circumstances that Putnam's headquarters could be reached from the left as well as the right fork. But, aside from the sour mood inflicted by the loss of his walking-around money, Rose's manner put him off. She had been somewhat disagreeable since their first acquaintance, and hardly acted with the deference his station as leader of their delegation demanded. He stuck his nose into the air and declined further comment, riding on and expecting Rose to come galloping up behind.

  She did not. In fact, she decided to let go of the carriage horse she had tied behind her own so she could increase her speed northward to General Putnam. She was not only sure her way was the right one, she was happy to be free of the Dutchman and his laggard pace. Her heels eagerly found her mount's ribs in an effort to make up lost time.

  Losing the horse was a critical mistake, though there was no way she could have known it. Had the animal not been left to stand idly at the intersection, the shadow lurking on the road half a league behind would have been forced to give up his chase, as the pain from his wounded rump had not responded satisfactorily to the cures he had administered. This was due in no small part to the aggravation caused by trotting behind his quarry.

  But presented with a horse, Major Dr. Harland Keen saw the prospects for the swift completion of his mission improve greatly. Before climbing onto its back, he took two small bottles from the brown leather satchel he'd removed from the carriage. The contents of one were smeared as a salve on his wound; the other was divided between himself and the horse, man and animal taking an immense gulp.

  The effects of the second bottle hit Keen more quickly than those of the first. His head lightened, and he felt his heart pounding in his chest with new energy. He boosted himself up o
n the animal's back, and found the mare as frisky as a two-year-old Arabian. The horse actually rose on her rear legs, anxious to run.

  But before he could set out, he faced a choice — which road had they taken?

  Keen had been too far behind to hear their arguing, and so had no way of knowing that either path would lead to one of his enemies. He decided to head down one until he reached some town or settlement; if he could find no trace of the fat Dutchman and the undernourished girl, he would retrace his steps and try the other.

  There was no doubt in his mind that he would eventually find them, deliver his revenge, and then move on to apprehend the Gibbs character. In fact, Keen might be fairly said to be driven by the prospect of revenge, especially against the girl, whose actions at the cottage had catapulted her to the head of his list of likely candidates for experimentation.

  Left or right?

  He chose the left fork, for no other reason than it seemed to be the one his horse preferred, its nose already aimed in that direction.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Wherein, Jake becomes a Tory leader, for the good of the Cause.

  The sun's advance rays were just tickling the horizon as Jake secured the door of the barn where he had tied up the militia guards. He had little time to celebrate and bare seconds to catch his breath. The American spy feared one or two of the Tory prisoners inside the church might fight off the effects of their late-night drinking and notice he was gone.

  Deciding to reenter the church through the choir window, Jake took two long pieces of rope from the barn and knotted them together. After listening at the door for any sound inside — none yet — he knotted a large circle in the rope, stood back and threw it up, hoping to hook around one of the wooden staves that stood in the bell tower window above. Two tries and nothing; by the third Jake was working on a story to explain his coming through the front door. On his fifth try, he caught a metal spike in the ledge. He was up the side and in the church so quickly that the parson would have applauded, thinking that only a soul bent on salvation — and enamored with his sermons — could move so quickly.

  Jake found the choir loft empty as before. Leaving the rope dangling outside, he crept to the balcony, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior. When he saw the coast was clear he retrieved the rope, coiling it in the corner, then slipped over the choir rail and plummeted to the floor.

  This was not a particularly quiet operation, and in fact he cursed aloud, echoing his knee's complaints. He proceeded to walk noisily through the church, carelessly kicking pieces of wood and a man or two lying on the floor. A complete circuit brought him back to the front door, where what began as a cautious knock soon developed into a very loud bang.

  While their homemade hooch had rendered the prisoners nearly unconscious, Jake by now was making enough noise to wake the dead. Of course, the dead might have woken with less ill-effect — his pounding echoed and amplified the pounding between their temples, and the first reaction Jake heard behind him was a collection of groans and undisguised threats. "Smith, Smith, what the hell are you doing?" called Caleb Evans, stumbling toward him. "There's no one guarding the front door. Help me." "What do you mean?"

  "Come on." Jake stepped back and took a running jab at heavy wooden door, pounding against it with his shoulder. The hinges barely creaked.

  Caleb watched in bewilderment as he tried a second time. "Are you sure?"

  "Don't you think the guards would be pounding on the other side if they were there?" Jake was so caught up in his role that he was out of breath. He wished he'd had the foresight to remove the strong board placed as a block across the door outside; as it now stood they would need several men rushing against it at once to break it down.

  "The boy said the attack would come two hours after dawn," said Caleb, looking up at the soft light filtering into the church from the upper windows. "That's still a long way off."

  "I was watching from the loft when the militia guards left," said Jake. "They ran off down the street with their weapons and haven't come back. Who knows what sort of trick Captain Busch is playing on them — we shouldn't wait to see if it fails." Jake took another run at the door, wincing as he rebounded. "Are you going to help me?"

  Caleb's brain was still muddled by the effects of the drink. He continually blinked his eyes, as if focusing them could sharpen his thoughts.

  "The boy said they would come for us," he said finally. The words were somewhat slurred. "I think we should wait."

  "Were we supposed to stay in the jail after we were rescued?' ^ 1 argued Jake. "They've obviously made whatever decoy attack they were planning, and we're supposed to take care of the rest."

  By now most of the other men had gotten up from their straw beds and staggered forward. The majority were simple farmers, and while their sympathies were with the king, until their imprisonment they probably would not have considered themselves active combatants. Still, their jailing had hardened their opinions, and they were anxious to escape. Those with families were very concerned for their safety. So Jake did not have to provoke them too hard to get a consensus: there was no time like the present to leave.

  The first rush at the door nearly reversed that decision, as the six volunteers were repelled not so much by the wood but the fierce pounding of blood against their brain pans. Fortunately, the barrier had started to give way, and Jake was able to organize a second posse, which split the lower panel in two. He kicked through the wood and was able to upend the wooden bar with his hand; one more bounce against the door with his shoulder and the metal lock snapped free.

  He glanced at Caleb, then cautiously stepped through the portal — there was always the possibility the commotion had drawn reinforcements. The street was as empty as a village clerk's office five minutes to supper time. "Let's go!" he shouted from the porch. "Everyone out." "What about Wedget?" asked one of the Tories inside. "What about that bully bastard?" responded another. "I say, leave him to his fate." "We ought to kill him. Damn rebels'll prob'ly set him free."

  Once more Caleb and Jake exchanged glances. "I don't think that's wise," said Jake. "I think we should take him along, same as everyone."

  But the sentiment was strong against him. Caleb finally shrugged — as the bully was not part of the ranger troop, he did not care to exert himself in his defense.

  "Well, come on then." Jake led the group down the street, past the barn and in the direction of the bridge where he had hoped to meet van Clynne last night. He was struck by a sudden fear that he might meet the Dutchman now; the squire had a tendency to involve himself in the worst situation at the least opportune moment.

  Jake need not have worried, for van Clynne was hurrying in the opposite direction, determined to show the upstart little girl that his path to Putnam was indeed shorter and faster.

  Perhaps the word "hurrying" is not entirely accurate. It could be used to describe the initial stages of his journey, as he prodded his horse along the road, grumbling about the fact that children no longer showed the proper respect for their elders. He shared his theory as to how this had come to happen with his horse; in abbreviated form, it had to do with their parents allowing them to wear shoes at a young age.

  The horse, who had worn his own shoes from early colt hood, did not make much comment. Nor did he respond to the Dutchman's requests to avoid hitting the ruts in the road as he traveled. But the animal was only too happy to comply when van Clynne loosened his makeshift rein and let him take a slower pace.

  A considerable amount of time had now passed without van Clynne having acquainted himself with food. While one might think that his experiences with Major Dr. Keen had vanquished his appetite for good, the exact opposite was true. In fact, the Dutchman's voracious nature had been stoked beyond its usual capacity by the previous afternoon and evening's activities. The more van Clynne thought about it, the more he concluded that his way of getting to General Putnam's headquarters was so much faster than Rose's that he could easily afford a short respite from
the ardors of the journey, and still beat her.

  As it happened, he knew of a very accommodating innkeeper who lay a short turn off a minor detour not a quarter of a mile up the lane. With the imagined scent of bacon tickling his nose, he shook his lead and encouraged the horse to pick up his pace.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Wherein, the narrative ventures to the Loyalist side of the story, where the perspective takes a darker turn.

  While Jake was doing his best to let himself be captured several hours earlier, Captain Busch was trying equally hard to escape. Busch had to sneak through the dense underbrush for several miles to avoid the Rhode Islanders who had ambushed them. When he reached the highway without any sight or sound of them, he took off his green coat and hat, realizing he'd increase the odds of surviving by doffing signs of his alliance.

  Still, removing the coat felt perilously like striking the flag, and the ranger captain suffered a pang of regret as he stuffed the green badge of his honor beneath a rotted tree trunk. He went out onto the roadway, and paced in the dusty rut along the far side back to the south, hoping Smith would appear soon.

  Busch walked back and forth like that for nearly an hour, willing his man to rush out of the woods with his cocky attitude and declare he would sooner fight the entire rebel army than surrender. When that didn't happen, Busch began to fear Smith had been captured. He trusted the new man like few others he had ever met, and knew he would keep quiet about his mission. But that alone might provoke the American rabble into killing him, especially if Smith were still wearing his uniform.

  Reluctantly, the Tory admitted he must leave his subordinate temporarily to his fate. Smith had at least one chance of salvation if captured — before leaving the farm near Salem, Busch had given Sergeant Lewis strict orders to carry out the attack on the rebel jail within two hours of dawn, even if he himself hadn't returned by then. He had reasoned not only that Corporal Evans and possibly Johnson needed to be freed, but that he and Smith might be among the internees by then.