The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  The rebels were likely to think the spy they were chasing would head back toward British lines in the south, so Busch temporarily headed north, intending to turn west and double back as soon as possible. Still wet from his swim, the Tory leader alternately walked and trotted through the darkness. He had grown up here, and knew the countryside intimately, but much of it seemed foreign to him, as if he'd been plunked into a far-off country. He could not fathom why so many of his neighbors had allied themselves to the revolutionists. Without the stability of the crown and the order of law, he reasoned, men were no better than a pack of dogs in the woods.

  Busch's mood lifted a bit when he came to the property owned by Horace Fiddler. Now retired and near seventy, Mister Fiddler had been for many years a teacher — his teacher as a matter of fact, and he flattered himself that the old man had even taken a shine to him. Tiptoeing onto his land, he recalled a morning many years before when Fiddler had praised his ciphers. He remembered the moment fondly, and used it to justify his temporary rental of the old man's horse.

  With a whispered promise not to harm it, he led the old mare from the yard to the road, waiting until he was out of sight of the house to board her. The animal was not used to being ridden — Mister Fiddler hitched her to a small kittereen or two-wheeled light carriage for his travels — and turned her neck in amazement at this unfamiliar task. But Busch persevered, gently goading the animal, and was soon riding at a steady if slow pace.

  As the safest path back to Stoneman's lay over Pine's Bridge anyway, Busch decided to meet up with his ranger troop as they assaulted the jail. He got off the horse as the sun dawned; by then he was no more than two miles from the small crossroads hamlet where the church was located.

  Had he stayed on the horse and continued riding, even at an easy pace, he would have gotten there just in time to see the last escaping prisoner kick a bit of dirt back in the direction of the church before running to catch up with the others. But wanting to keep the borrowed horse from accidental harm, he stopped and tied her by the side of the road in front of a house he knew belonged to another former student. The man — a carpenter whose politics were radical but who was otherwise honest and fair — undoubtedly would recognize the mare and see that she was returned.

  Folding his arms across his vest, Busch walked on toward the prison. It took a little over a half hour for him to arrive at the neighboring creek. From the small bridge he could see that the church door was open and there were no militia guards in sight; he walked on cautiously, realizing the operation must be over.

  His plan to slip through the hamlet and continue on toward Stoneman's was ruined, however, when a man and woman emerged from the barn across from the church shouting. The two militiamen Jake had tied up earlier followed them out, and Busch saw that the entire population of the hamlet — counting children, this came to nine people — had been alerted and were running back and forth, shouting alarms.

  Another person, indeed, nearly any British officer, would have faded into the woods. But Busch was a highly conscientious leader, and trusting that he could talk himself out of danger if confronted, he decided to step briefly into the church to make sure all the prisoners had escaped.

  The building was deserted, except for the bully, Charles Wedget, who remained tied in the corner. Wedget had formerly been apprenticed to a tubal-cain or iron founder several miles north; Busch recognized him and knew he was a Tory sympathizer. He also knew the oaf well enough to realize why he'd been left behind. He frowned and spun quickly on his heel. "Free me, John Busch, or I'll give you away." Wedget had barely closed his mouth when Busch was upon him, pistol drawn and held to his head. "Prepare to die, then."

  Tears welled in Wedget's eyes as his bully's facade crumbled like the ruins around Rome. "Save me, and I can help you. The escape was planned." "I planned it myself," replied Busch. "Those were my rangers you saw." "There was no troop of rangers. The guards had all disappeared. It is a rebel plot. Please," pleaded Wedget. Busch was still considering what to do when two citizens with rifles entered the building.

  "They beat this man up because he was a patriot," he said quickly, pointing at Wedget. "Apparently they're planning an attack on White Plains."

  "One of them locked the guards in the barn," said the plump man in front. "We've sent for a troop of Massachusetts men."

  "I'm with the Committee on Conspiracies," said Busch. "I'll go on south and alert the forces at White Plains." "You look familiar, sir," said the man as the other untied Wedget. Busch thrust out his hand. "John Busch." "Are you from this area?"

  "Further west, near the river." Busch turned quickly. "Myself and this man will take the road south; send someone north to General McDougall. Hurry, man; John Jay will have my head if these villains get away."

  Busch's mention of the well-respected Jay — besides heading the Committee on Conspiracies, he was a member of half a dozen other patriot committees and a state judge besides — set aside any doubts and got the locals into motion. Busch was able to commandeer two horses; he and Wedget were heading for Pine's Bridge and Stoneman's beyond it before the citizens had even stumbled across the third guard tied in the woods.

  At the intersection of the road to Stoneman's, Busch wheeled his horse to a halt and confronted Wedget. The bully's face immediately clouded; Busch kept his hand near his belt but realized his pistol would not be needed to gain more information. "What was it you meant to tell me?" asked Busch. "Make it quick, man." "Everyone got drunk last night on some squeezings we'd made." "Everyone but yourself."

  Wedget nodded. "And one other man, brought in late by the militia. He said his name was Smith, and a more suspicious lurker could not be found anywhere in the country."

  Busch betrayed no emotion at the mention of his comrade, though he was glad he was alive — and not surprised Smith had withstood the temptation of alcohol. Nor did he think it unusual that such a man as Wedget would misjudge his character. But as the tale of Smith's mysterious disappearance from the loft continued, Busch felt the sharp pang a bullet makes when it enters the gut. The pain took a crooked path, wrenching much of his insides, and though he endeavored to keep his face motionless, Wedget was encouraged by the turn of his lip to embellish his tale.

  "When this Smith returned," said the bully, "the guards were gone, and all of the prisoners walked free from the jail. Something had been arranged; I heard this Smith whispering outside."

  "How could you have done that when you were tied in the corner?"

  "I did, sir," said the bully. "The door was broken from the inside, to make the escape look genuine. The man is a traitor and a rebel, this Smith. You can tell by his eyes." Busch took his pistol from his belt. "Where did they go?" "D-don't shoot me." "I will if I find you've lied. Where did they go?" "They were talking about a farm over the bridge."

  "Come with me," said Busch, uncocking his pistol. "And pray to God my guess is right. For if I'm wrong, I'll kill you."

  Wedget struggled to keep up as the Tory captain, filled with regret as well as rage, turned his horse toward Stoneman's.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Wherein, Jake matches wits with Sergeant Lewis in a less than Fair Fight.

  Though he might have understood them, Jake was not aware of the Tory captain's strong emotions, nor did he know he had reached the church. In fact, Jake suspected that Busch was waiting at Stoneman's, and spent most of the journey from the jail to the Tory hideout rehearsing an account of his capture that might sound somewhat plausible in the commander's ears.

  The motley parade of Tories encountered no resistance. Caleb and the others seemed content to let Jake take the lead. The American secret agent kept the irony of his position to himself.

  When they reached Stoneman's, they found the remnants of the ranger force in disarray. The clouds gathering overhead were but a hint of the dark mood that had descended on the supposedly unflappable irregulars. The captain had failed to return, and the attack on the jail had been forgotten as they attemp
ted to regroup after last night's ferocious assault.

  The details of what had happened were sketchy at best, and varied depending on the teller. The story gaining the most currency was that no less than three full regiments under General Alexander McDougall had overrun the corps as it slept. The rebels were said to have been beaten off by a determined counterattack, the rangers' only ally the attackers' inherent cowardice. Even so, the barn had been set ablaze, several horses lost, and a sentry killed. In addition, one of the servants seemed to have been carried off as a war prize.

  Sergeant Lewis was wearing a bandage that swelled his already large head to twice its normal size. He was in a dismal, cranky mood, and not even the news of the bloodless escape from the rebel jail could cheer him.

  A pugnacious sort who wore his ranger beanie far forward on his head when it wasn't injured, Lewis had just the kind of bravery for which Tories are known. While his commander and the British were nearby, he strutted back and forth in his fine boots, tugging at his green jacket with all the pride of an Italian prince. But under the pressure of the night's difficulties, his fine facade had crumbled. He was now a testament to indecision, inclined to wait at the farm for Busch to arrive, even if that took the rest of the war.

  "Well, ya made sumthin' of yerself, at least," he said to Jake after hearing the erstwhile ranger's report of the adventure. "Ya might as well see if ya can scrounge up some breakfast. The girl's run off — or was carried away, whichever. We'll be here a while."

  Jake realized that Busch's absence would make it considerably easier to sabotage their plot. He also knew that the longer they waited at Stoneman's, the better the odds he would show up. And so he endeavored to encourage the troop to leave for its rendezvous. A rendezvous had been planned, hadn't it? "Keep yer shirt on," said Lewis. "I'm the one what knows the plan, not you. It's me that's in charge." "I don't question that," answered Jake. "But we should leave before the rebels find us."

  "Why? We don't have to be aboard the Richmond until 3 p.m. Our horses will get us there within an hour."

  "Given the problems of yesterday," said Jake, acting as if he had known the plan all along, "I suggest we should leave immediately." "What do you know of the problems of yesterday?" "One of the men told me the horses got sick." "Yes, well, they're better now," said Lewis stubbornly. "Even so, the rebels will be searching the countryside for us, sir."

  The sergeant galumphed, and cast an eye toward Caleb. As corporal, he should have led the breakout from the jail, or at least the march south. Now his authority had been usurped by the uppity Smith. Would the sergeant's post be next?

  But Jake was well used to dealing with a man such as Lewis, and proceeded to praise the sergeant for his leadership and rapport with the men. His words sounded so sincere that Lewis was somewhat softened.

  "I wonder, Sergeant, why you were not actually placed in charge from the beginning," assayed Jake. "After all, you are considerably closer to the men than Captain Busch. And I don't believe what the others have whispered."

  "Tell it to yer bunter, not me," said the sergeant. While the expression implied that Jake should seek the services of a woman whose loose morals would make her believe anything, there was nonetheless a hint of wounded pride in Lewis's face. "As I said, Sergeant, I didn't believe it." "Who said it? Who?" Lewis's cheeks screwed up like an angered puffer fish. "I would not," said Jake, "turn traitor on any fellow in this troop."

  Lewis's hand jutted forward as he prepared to demand an answer to his question. But the rush of blood to his head so increased the pain in his wounds that he had to stop and put both hands to his skull, as if it were about to explode.

  "Listen, fool," he said after calming somewhat, "when ya've gone through the hells that I've been through, then ya can talk of courage. Anyone can stand up to a salt merchant on the road, or break out of jail."

  Sergeant Lewis spit into the dirt and took a step away, debating with himself. Surely the rebels would launch a search for the escaped prisoners, and that could complicate things. He didn't like Jake Smith, but if he ignored him, Smith was exactly the sort of eager beaver fellow who would stir up the others.

  It was probably Corporal Evans who had gone around whispering. He was just the type.

  Well, the sergeant could deal with both of these bastards in one blow.

  "All right, get your horses!" he thundered to his men, his voice trailing off because of the pounding in his brain. "We ride in five minutes-less, if possible. Smith, find yourself a new uniform from the pile there. We have no more helmets.

  "You, Caleb — take Smith and round up these citizens and lead them south to New York. Hurry, before the damn rebels or their Skinners make an appearance." But Jake had no intention of leaving the main column. "Begging your pardon, Sergeant, but if Captain Busch doesn't show up — " "I'm in charge now, Smith. I'll not have my orders questioned." "I merely wanted to point out that I know the layout of the defenses around the chain, which I presume is our target."

  "It might be," allowed Lewis, who in fact had only a hazy idea of the shape their mission would take once they reached the HMS Richmond. "Then perhaps it would be better if I came with you to the ship, where my knowledge may prove useful." Smith, the sergeant reluctantly conceded, had a point. "Caleb, choose another man in his place," he said. "The rest of you, look sharp!" "Perhaps six or seven men might be better," suggested Jake. "There are many rebels about."

  "Don't push it, Smith. If yer gonna have a comment every time I give an order, ya'll soon find yourself swingin' upside down from an oak tree, no matter how important ya are."

  Even so, the sergeant did add a few more soldiers to Caleb's force, leaving the ranger complement at a bare two dozen. He boarded his horse — to say "jumped on" would imply more vigor than his bandaged head allowed — and got his troops in motion. A few of the rescued Tories came up to him as he was about to leave and protested that they would prefer to go back to their homes in place of the city.

  "Yer homes are as good as burned down now," he told them. "Ya better do as I say and get yourselves south. Come tonight, the rebels will be getting what they deserve, thanks to His Majesty's Navy. And Earl Graycolmb's Doughty Rangers."

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Wherein, the virtues of the so-called weaker sex are extolled, far too briefly.

  Have we yet paused this narrative long enough to make proper note of the contributions of the female portion of our population to the great cause of Freedom? Have we noted the unparalleled bravery, the sacrifices of the distaff of our society? Or forayed into the differences of women bred unto this New World, bolder than Eve herself, veritable mothers of Liberty?

  Alas, if we have not had time to do it until now, we will lose this chance as well. One of those brave women — nay, she is barely a girl — was last seen riding hard in the night, heading northwards for General Putnam's headquarters to alert him and save the country from ruin. Her ride is every bit as important as Paul Revere's, and should she achieve her goal before daybreak, undoubtedly her name will be mentioned in every sentence that praises the Boston silversmith.

  Unfortunately, she is not to reach her goal, though this is not due to any failing on her own. She rides her horse as swiftly as possible, and while Squire van Clynne might beg to differ, her route is a good one. But — and here is a serious "but" — she is being pursued by one of the most accomplished members of the British Secret Department, a ruthless man who justifies his personal deprivations with the rubric of philosophic experimentation, indeed, a man whose polished demeanor hides the ferocity of a wounded lion.

  Rose McGuiness drove her horse hard once she was free of van Clynne. But the poor animal, stolen from the Tory rangers, had been left in a much weakened state by the poison Jake had fed it the day before. The stallion quickly tired, and within three miles simply stopped in the road, near total collapse.

  Rose slipped from its back and patted the animal's heaving side. She realized it would die if pushed any further, but her missi
on could not afford a long delay. So she caught the ribbons of her bonnet and tied them firmly around her neck, pulled her cloak tight against the rising wind, and set off on foot up the road.

  The sun tickled the Connecticut hills to her right, struggling to break through the ever-increasing layer of clouds. Rose aimed to approach the first homestead she came to and persuade the owner to lend her a horse to proceed north on.

  She had gone no more than a quarter mile when she heard hoof beats coming up the road behind her. Her first thought was that the fat Dutchman she had rescued finally had realized his mistake, and was now coming to make amends. She put her hands on her hips and continued walking without turning back, smug in the knowledge that her path had proven the correct one.

  But the lesson of Pride and its inevitable downfall that Rose had so recently delivered to Major Dr. Keen was now to be visited on her, with great severity. For the person approaching was not van Clynne but Keen himself. The doctor spurred his drug-stimulated horse, the lingering flicker of pain in his rump where Rose's bullet had buried itself an extra incentive. Hunkered down on his horse like an English riding champion — which indeed he had been during his youth — he plucked her from the roadway with no more difficulty than if he'd picked up an injured bird.

  Freedom's partisans are not so easily vanquished. Rose punched and kicked at the side of Keen's horse, forcing the doctor to slow the animal and concentrate on his steering. As she felt Keen's pressure lighten, Rose sunk her teeth viciously into his thigh, which had an immediate effect — he dropped her on the road.