The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  The girl was barely able to get her arms out to break her fall as she tumbled against the hard clay and rocks. Spilling in a heap, she righted herself and flew for the woods, losing a shoe and her shawl in the process.

  Keen cut her off, pulling the horse around and riding quickly to the edge of the path. Rose turned and darted back and he was before her again, flashing his sardonic smile. The flickering rays of the early light glanced off the rings on his fingers as a golden beam slashed from above and caught her on the neck.

  Rose yelped in pain as she fell down on her back, hurt by the blow from Keen's cane. She remembered the Segallas tucked into her sock and reached for it, only to feel the heavy pressure of Keen's shoe on her hand.

  The doctor flicked his cane and a long blade of silver shot from the tip like the tongue of a serpent's mouth.

  "A very pretty face," he told her. "What a shame if I shall have to cut it severely."

  The point of the knife brushed lightly on her cheek, and suddenly Rose felt incredibly warm, as if she'd been placed next to a fire. Indeed, she was convinced that had happened — for her conscious mind fled, and she lapsed back against the ground in dark limbo.

  Keen examined the small slice he had made on her cheek before hauling her aboard his horse. It was a superficial wound, though it easily accomplished its purpose — the introduction of a sleeping drug into her blood system. The effects ordinarily would last a full hour, but given his experience with van Clynne, the doctor took no chances now. He threw her over his horse and returned quickly to the animal she had abandoned; the horse's ties served as hard restraints against her wrists and ankles. He then took a small envelope from his satchel, and mixed it with a few drops of a blue liquid contained in a dropper bottle; the doctor had to use a spoon to complete the operation and the mixture was crude and inexact. Nonetheless, he could tell from the scent — a light mixture of chamomile and licorice masking a more medicinal flavor — that the proper reaction had taken place. And the drug had the correct effect: after Rose was forced to swallow, her body suddenly bolted upright, eyes wide open.

  Rose was both a bold and strong young woman, a fine example of American breeding. But she was no match for Keen or his formula. Her throat burned with the hot liquid, then she began to feel dizzy.

  Keen, standing at her side, began to make suggestions to help the process of the drug along. Though her limbs were clamped with tight straps, he told her she was free. He suggested that her arms had been changed to wings; he could tell by her smile that she believed she had escaped him at last.

  "Who is the eagle flying near you?" Keen asked in a level voice, as if he saw the vision he was introducing to her mind. The technique had been taught to him by the African necromancer who gave him the drugs.

  "Colonel Gibbs," replied Rose.

  "Your lover?"

  She shook her head. "My fiance Robert is working on the chain. Colonel Gibbs is going to protect it. He'll peck the Tories' eyes out. I must fly to General Putnam, and tell him. The fat Dutchman will help. The Tories plan to attack tomorrow night. I — must — go."

  Keen let her body collapse back onto the ground as the drug's more useful effects wore off. She could now be expected to sleep for several hours, and would wake with a terrible headache — assuming, of course, that Keen decided to keep her alive until then.

  The doctor faced a minor dilemma, in that the girl had revealed that this Gibbs character was trying to sabotage a British military operation. While his own mission naturally took ultimate priority, he was nonetheless bound to thwart them, especially since the British target was the chain, which he properly understood to be the key rebel defense on the upper Hudson. He would have to alert his fellow countrymen.

  There was only one ship on the river this far north that could serve as a command post for such an operation, the HMS Richmond. Keen's best course of action was to find the ship and its commander, inform him of the plot, and continue with his business.

  This was not necessarily a detour, he realized; it might very well lead him directly to his two targets. Nonetheless, he was annoyed, for it meant he would have to postpone his dissection of the light sack of flesh he hoisted in front of himself on the horse.

  As Keen turned the animal back toward the cottage where his carriage had been left, Rose murmured something. Still in the last throes of the suggestive phase of the drug, she repeated it at Keen's request: "Just let me catch a wink of sleep, darling."

  "Oh yes," chuckled the doctor, patting her cheek as he set off. "You'll need your rest."

  Chapter Thirty

  Wherein, Captain Busch is too late, Squire van Clynne is too poor, and Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs too quick.

  The rangers had been gone from Stoneman's for nearly an hour by the time Busch arrived. But there was still plenty of evidence that they had found hot action there — the captain quickly noticed the damage to the barn, and then saw the crude grave of his soldier. He jumped from his horse and knelt at the tree-limb cross, convinced by some unworldly sense that the man below had been killed by his nemesis, Jake Smith. It was as if the knowledge was contained in the soil he rubbed between his fingers.

  "Damn you, Jake Smith," he cursed as he rose. "I don't know what your true name is, but when I find out it will be sung in infamy throughout the land." "Infamy!" repeated Wedget, still sitting on his horse. "Kill Jake Smith!" "You!" shouted Busch. "Off the horse." "But — " "Off, I say!" Busch took two strides to his horse and grabbed his pistol.

  In that short distance his stature seemed to double. Wedget slid off the horse quickly — only to find the captain standing before him, pistol in hand.

  "You gave me your word you'd save me," cried the former bully.

  "I did nothing of the sort," said Busch. He cocked back the lock as tears rolled down Wedget's face. "Off with your shoes."

  "But my feet are swollen inside."

  "I will shoot them off, if you wish."

  Wedget yanked away at the boots with all his might. It was plain that he was speaking the truth; his feet were in horrible shape, filled with pus and bleeding besides. Busch realized no further precaution was necessary against his being followed.

  " A word of any of this to the rebels, a word of me or any citizen loyal to the Crown, and I will search you out and pull the tongue from your mouth with my own fingers," promised Busch. He pointed the gun back up the road. " That direction will take you to New York, if you're lucky."

  " B — But I want to come with you."

  Busch's answer was only to point the pistol at Wedget's face. The bully took a step backwards in fear, and then the man who yesterday had proclaimed himself complete despot of his squalid domain lost control of his sphincter.

  So may it be with all bullies, and especially that one most pernicious, King George III himself. Busch shook his head in disgust, then leapt to his horse and galloped off in pursuit of the damnable Smith. Wedget remained sitting in the dust for a long while, sobbing softly to himself.

  Claus van Clynne, Esquire, had by now had a sufficient breakfast to find himself in a relatively forgiving and generous mood. This spirit extended itself toward the upstart young woman whom he had rescued earlier from Dr. Keen's clutches — for so the story formed itself in his mind, now that he had time to arrange it for proper dramatic effect — and most certainly would include any enthusiastic patriot who found it within his heart to extend him credit in the name of the Cause.

  "No matter what your politics, you'll pay me for the meal you've just had," said the innkeeper where he had breakfasted. "I don't give an owl's hoot for your feelings toward me, one way or another."

  "Come, come, my good Jan. How long have we been acquainted?"

  "An hour too long, by my reckoning," spat the keeper. "Claus van Clynne, I've never known you to travel without three bags of silver coins tied to your waist, and twice that number hanging from your neck."

  "You may search me, sir, if you do not take my word," said van Clynne, sweeping his hands ou
t in a great gesture. "Though the day a Dutchman does not trust a fellow Dutchman — well, that is a sad day for us all, is it not?"

  "I'd trust him as far as I could throw him," said Jan's wife from the doorway. Missy Lina had always been a disagreeable woman, as far as van Clynne was concerned.

  "I hope you are not seeking to search me as well," he told her. "There are certain proprieties, even among friends."

  "Come, Claus, stop this nonsense and pay up," said Jan, holding out his palm.

  "I tell you, I have been robbed. First of my salt, then of some paltry coins — mostly clipped, fortunately — and finally of all my warrants and true currency. I am as penniless as the day I was born. My wealth perished in a fire several miles from here."

  "What about the notes you keep in the heel of your shoe?"

  Jan turned and looked at his wife in amazement. Van Clynne blustered again that all his purses had been stolen.

  "I'm amazed that my integrity is called into question," he said. "I am penniless and you will find no coin in my possession. I am searching for my friend Jake Gibbs; surely you can wait until I find him or he comes here himself, for he will be glad to pay you from the sum he owes me. He has blond hair, stands just over six foot and is often seen in a contemptuous three-cornered hat. Despite his poor taste in headgear, he is a personal confidante of His Most Excellent Excellency, General George Washington, and therefore should be dealt with accordingly."

  "Stop trying to change the subject," said Jan's wife. "Pay us with the money in your shoe, smelly as it may be."

  "Surely you do not expect me to part with notes that were given to me by my dear, departed grandfather."

  "Your grandfather passed on before they were printing bills on paper," said Missy. "Besides, he took every guilder he had to the grave."

  With a vigorous complaint, van Clynne reached down and amid much huffing and puffing pulled his leg across his lap. He stopped suddenly and asked if there was no longer such a thing as modesty abroad in the country.

  "Pay up or we shall teach you about modesty," warned Missy, who in the end condescended to turn her back while van Clynne took off his shoe and worked a trick screw on the heel. The continental note-his last emergency money, he swore — was more than enough to compensate for his meal.

  The Tory rangers, meanwhile, were making steady progress toward the river. Sergeant Lewis rode at their head, next to a private deputized as ensign and carrying their trifling green pennant on a long halberd. A British chronicler might well find pleasure in describing the image of their green coats passing in thunderous parade down the road, their bear-fur bonnets proclaiming doughty resolve and righteousness before man and king.

  We, of course, shall have none of it, turning our attention instead to Jake. Decked out in a fresh new ranger coat — a bit short in the sleeves, but otherwise serviceable — and armed with a musketoon and light sword, he rode at the rear, urging the last stragglers onward. The troop moved off the main road near Pine's Bridge to follow an obscure Indian path in the forest.

  Jake realized their route had been chosen to lessen the odds of a chance meeting with American patrols. He also suspected that Busch himself had set it out for the sergeant, as he was much more familiar with the area than Lewis.

  Would he follow it then if he arrived at Stoneman's after his troop had left?

  Surely an easy question to answer, and Jake looked for some method of precluding that possibility. Now that Busch was out of the way, he wanted him to stay there; the British forces would be formidable enough without the captain to help them. With luck, Old Put had already captured him and was preparing a nice surprise at the chain, thanks to Rose's warning — but Jake knew better than to count on luck.

  Could he count on the caltrops he'd taken from the barn's arsenal, however? Multi-spiked iron snowdrops or nails, caltrops are often used by cavalry units to slow pursuit. Properly deployed, they put an iron bramble in the path of mounted troops, whose horses must step smartly if they are not to be stung and lamed.

  Jake did not have enough to blanket the path. Instead, he scattered them clandestinely, dropping them randomly when the other rangers were not watching. He hoped that a traveler in a hurry — as Busch would be — wouldn't notice the iron prickles until it was too late.

  "What the hell are you doing, Smith!"

  Stunned, Jake looked up into the face of the sergeant, who had stopped at the intersection of an old Indian path and waited for his men to pass him. "I was just dropping these in case we were followed," Jake explained, tossing his last handful. "Stop wasting time. No one is following us. Now, down this path and look smart — I don't like stragglers." "Yes, sir," said Jake, kicking his horse. Lewis was wrong, and in fact the group was being hotly pursued — by Captain Busch. The Tory urged his horse onward, succeeding in getting it to gallop — only to be deposited in a heap when the stallion stung its foot on one of Jake's caltrops not a quarter of a mile from the place where Lewis was bawling out his rear guard.

  Cursing, Busch gathered his wits as he dusted the dirt from his clothes. He examined the horse and found the poor animal sufficiently injured that it could no longer be ridden.

  Had the circumstances been different, he might have shown the poor animal more compassion. Indeed, he was a great lover of horses, and realizing that the animal's wounds would soon heal, he did not shoot him. But neither did he take the horse with him as he struck out through the woods toward a small inn where he believed he could secure — or steal, if necessary — another.

  The tavern was owned by a Dutchman known to be sympathetic to the rebels, though his wife seemed a better judge of character. Not that it would matter much if they tried to stop him — Busch made sure both pistols were loaded as he ran the half mile to the house.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Wherein, Squire van Clynne falls in with a group of patriots inoculated with the love of Freedom, among other things.

  Refreshed from breakfast, Squire van Clynne set out with new vigor, though his pace was even slower than before. The chafing of his posterior against the horse's back was so severe that he would have gladly reopened his heel for the purchase of a saddle, if only one were to be had. The country here, rolling hills and forest, had not been adequately developed, in van Clynne's opinion. It was given over entirely to apple farms, and even these appeared to have been abandoned for a considerable length of time. Thus the conveniences of modern life — like saddle shops-were not at hand.

  Nonetheless, he made steady progress, prodded by the knowledge that General Putnam was empowered to issue a certificate that would compensate not only his financial losses but his efforts to the Cause as well. Indeed, an even greater plan took shape in the Dutchman's mind as he rode. He would ask — nay, he would demand — that the general appoint him to the lead of a squadron of men, bold soldiers whom he would take against these Tory scoundrels, foiling their attack on the Great Hudson River Chain and, not incidentally, recovering his salt.

  And very possibly, his coins as well. His exploits would be proclaimed throughout the continent — he knew newspaper owners in every city of consequence — and General Washington would volunteer to restore his estate. The Congress would demand it, for the population would have his name on its lips: "Claus van Clynne, the man who saved the nation. The man who saved the Great Hudson River Chain."

  The Great Hudson River Iron Chain — that had a better ring to it. An iron-willed Dutchman who saved Freedom. Why, he could hear the minstrels celebrating his victory already.

  Actually, now that he listened more closely, the music sounded remarkably like "Yankee Doodle." Van Clynne turned his head in the direction of the song and spotted a small wooden house not far off the road. A makeshift banner fluttered on a slender twig stuck near the doorway; van Clynne concluded that the red dots on yellow background were a company marker, designed to give the unit pride as well as identity. The owners were all inside, obviously celebrating a recent victory over the British — for the song,
once sung in derision of the American army, had been turned around and appropriated as the boldest curse possible against the British regulars. The young voices sang with such joy and emotion that the roof was shaking, and van Clynne suspected that though the sun had only just risen, the men had gone through their daily quotient of rum.

  Providence had sent him his soldiers!

  Why not enlist them now, foil this damnable plot against the chain, and present himself to Putnam as a hero instead of one more worthy citizen who had been robbed?

  Any reader who thinks van Clynne would have paused to answer such a question, rhetorically or otherwise, does not recognize the true nature of the Dutchman. In a thrice, he had crossed the small stream separating him from the house and hitched his horse outside. Without bothering to knock, he walked straight inside and immediately fell in on the chorus of "Yankee Doodle."

  There were a dozen young Connecticut continental privates crammed into the room, all in spirits jolly enough to ignore his frequent sour notes. They passed him a cup of cider and continued their song, venturing into a verse the good Dutchman had scarce heard before:

  Heigh for old Cape Cod

  Heigh ho Nannatasket

  Do not let those Boston wags

  Feel your oyster basket.

  The ribald play on words — the interested reader should ponder the image contained in the last line — had a curious effect on the Dutchman, whose recent pursuit of love had made him curiously chaste. He turned red and momentarily lost his voice. Nonetheless, he soon fell back in tune as the men swung into a rousing version of "Free America," Dr. Joseph Warren's ingenious revision of "The British Grenadiers."

  The accompaniment was provided by a pasty-faced man of twenty or twenty-one, who worked his fiddle with such fervor that his face blotched with red dots and smears of exertion. Every man kept beat with his shoe, and one or two blew tin whistles instead of singing.