The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  Van Clynne was moved by the evident patriotism and spirit of this group; Fate could not have provided him with a better troop to win his fortune back.

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," said van Clynne, moving to the center of the room as the song ended. "Please, listen to me a moment. Who is the commanding officer here?"

  "There's the colonel, sir, John Chandler," said one able young man, a great strapping lad barely out of his teens, if that. "He's up at headquarters, though." "In this cottage, who is in charge?" "Well, there's no one in charge exactly, sir. We're all equals, being free men of Connecticut." Van Clynne nodded his approval; these were men inoculated with the spirit of Democracy from the very cradle.

  "Excellent, excellent. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" asked van Clynne with great flourish, determined to commit every detail of this entire episode to memory, so as to provide a careful account for future chroniclers.

  "Private Martin, at your service," said the young man, who promptly stuck out his hand and shook van Clynne's.

  "My name is Claus van Clynne, gentlemen. I am a special agent assigned in the service of His Excellency General Washington." It was not a great exaggeration, surely, if one follows the logic that Jake Gibbs was Washington's man, and van Clynne his coequal assistant. “As well as a roving member of the Committees of Correspondence, Safety, and Ale Tasting." Ever mindful of his audience, the Dutchman was well aware that these young men would respond most fully to the last. "My rank as a hereditary commissioner of the New Netherlands authority as vested under the Treaty of Amsterdam is the equivalent of captain-general, triple-cluster."

  The privates were somewhat stupefied by the speech-making, and while looking for any excuse for action — they had been confined here for some time — did not know precisely what to make of their visitor.

  "Begging your pardon, sir," said Martin, seeing he had been designated their spokesman. "With all respect and honor, we've heard of lieutenant generals and major generals and even general generals, but never captain-generals. Where exactly does that fit in?"

  "Captain-general, triple-cluster," van Clynne corrected. "Unclustered, it would correlate precisely between my brother generals, the lieutenant and major. But the clusters are indeed multipliers, as I'm sure you recall from your school days. If we turn to the table of threes…"

  The reader by now is familiar with the sort of logic and tactics of persuasion the Dutchman habitually calls on, and thus will not be presented with the bulk of his argument as to why the (admittedly) hereditary rank was in (more than) full force at the moment. It should be noted that he was careful at all times to use such words as "equivalent" and "correlate," so that he could not technically be charged with impersonating an American officer, though in spirit he was certainly leading these poor young men to think he was as authorized to direct them as Old Put himself.

  The soldiers, naturally, began very doubtful, but a twenty-minute lecture from Claus van Clynne on nearly any subject will weaken the strongest will. And it must be remembered that his speech, if based on premises that were somewhat false, was aimed at an end wholly true — the defeat of the British.

  "I won't bore you with my other titles and authorities, gentlemen," said van Clynne, after he had indeed bored them at length. "Suffice to say that we have a mission of vital importance ahead of us. Take your weapons and follow me!"

  "Begging your pardon, sir, but follow you where?" asked Martin, who alone among the group had tried to work out the logic of the speech.

  "There's no time to lay out the entire mission, son," said van Clynne. "We've no time to lose."

  The Dutchman, intending to lead by example, stepped to the door and opened it without waiting for the others. He was surprised to see a bored soldier facing him at thirty or so paces, on the other side of the creek, musket with bayonet fixed in his arms. The man motioned with annoyance that he ought to close the door.

  Van Clynne took the action any army commander does when faced with something he does not immediately comprehend — he ignored it, and stepped through the doorway. "Let's go, men. The Tories won't spend their morning waiting, I warrant." "Get back inside," said the guard. The man was a Massachusetts private, and as such, not given to much chatter. "Who do you think you are addressing?" demanded van Clynne. "This troop is now under my direction."

  "I don't give a bent penny for whose direction they are," responded the guard. "Get inside and close the door. You're infecting the air."

  Van Clynne turned back to his men, determined to lead them onward despite the obviously addle-brained soldier outside the door. "Let's go, boys! The man outside has attended to one too many cannons, since he forgets what side he's on. Try not to harm him."

  None of the soldiers moved.

  "Come, then, you're not cowards are ye!" thundered the Dutchman, his voice elevating. He knew instinctually that these small trials must be overcome manfully, or the bigger ones will be lost before they are met.

  "We're not cowards, no sir," said Martin. "But — "

  "But nothing, man! Let's go!"

  "We're confined to barracks, sir," ventured another of the soldiers. "What crime have you committed?" asked van Clynne. "Come now, confess; I'll arrange a pardon straight away."

  "No crime, surely, sir," answered the man. "We've been inoculated for the small pox, and are under quarantine."

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne moves the poxed soldiers Co their duty and his glory.

  How sturdy is the human spirit, how unflappable in the face of pending ruin and destruction. Present it with the proper motivation, and no enemy will loom too large, no problem will seem insurmountable.

  Granted, the difficulties faced by Claus van Clynne at the moment were legion. There was the infectious pox — which having stepped foot in the room he was powerless to escape. There were the damnable British, and the heinous Tories. There was Dr. Keen, deprived of his leeches and his assistant, but in possession of his considerable wits and the squire's innumerable coins. There was the plot to destroy the chain, which van Clynne must foil if his beloved Cause was to survive. Then there was the mission to Schuyler, which while annoying would nonetheless help him toward his ultimate goal of retrieving his lost patrimony.

  But what are these against the strength of a Dutchman's will? How do they measure against his wisdom, or his tongue?

  "Gentlemen," van Clynne began, addressing the Connecticut soldiers, "hear me well. For what I am about to tell you, I swear upon the Bible, is the truth without exaggeration. You may think — "

  Here he was interrupted by a member of the company, who announced that he had a Bible, and the Dutchman was welcome to use it.

  Van Clynne swore twice — the first time under his breath — before continuing. "My friends, as you know, there is a huge iron chain stretched across the Hudson not ten miles from here, a barrier that protects all of northern New York, and thereby all of interior New England, from the British Navy and her marines, not to mention whatever troops her ships could ferry northward. As we stand here, confined to our barracks for an ailment no more serious than a sniffle — "

  "Excuse me, sir," said Martin, stepping up to the Dutchman. "But the small pox is not a trifling disease. Many of our friends have died from it."

  "A trifling disease that is no more than a hiccup to stout young men as yourselves — "

  "But, sir, the doctors say that we must be confined to barracks for two weeks at least. Just three days ago most of us were abed, and some of us are running fevers and — "

  "Enough!" thundered the Dutchman, and in his voice was an echo of that great and noble warrior-cum-governor, Peter Stuyvesant, bad leg and all. His round red cheeks grew rounder and more red, his beard twitched with emotion, even his brow furrowed as he exhorted the men not to let a scratch on their shoulders keep them from their duty. They could stop these heathen Tory pigs, but they must act quickly; they must move now. They must gather their weapons and march from the barracks to m
eet the enemy with all haste and speed.

  "Let the pox be our secret weapon!" thundered van Clynne to a rapt audience. "Let us infect the bastards, as Freedom has infected us! Let the fever of Liberty singe their skins and boil their souls!"

  Even so great an orator as Patrick Henry might have been pleased at van Clynne's wondrous performance, if not his exact metaphors or grammar. If his success was due largely to the soldiers' innate love of Freedom and their overwhelming boredom at having been locked up for nearly two weeks, certainly the result could not be argued with — van Clynne managed to rally the entire company to him, and proceeded out the door to confront the poor Massachusetts man assigned as guard. Now as far as the Massachusetts regiment keeping watch over the inoculated soldiers was concerned, there always had been some question as to whether they were protecting the sick men from attack, or keeping them from running away. Indeed, General Putnam — who was actually opposed to the inoculations but in this matter found himself overruled by the commander-in-chief-believed his most formidable enemy to be desertion, not disease or the redcoats. All manner of men were constantly leaving his army, most to go home, though a number to rejoin and claim extra enlistment bonuses and a few, it must be admitted, to join the enemy. Thus the Massachusetts man who now found himself confronted by two dozen troops, unarmed but certainly infectious, can be forgiven if he thought he was confronting a mutiny.

  Van Clynne intended to win this man to his small army in the manner he had won the others. But when he lifted his arm and pointed his finger as a necessary precursor to making his point, Private Martin and a few of the others misunderstood, and rushed at the soldier. The Massachusetts man stood his ground as they approached, right up until the moment he heard a few of the soldiers begin to cough. At that moment he decided there was no honor in catching the pox from a fellow American and ran for his health, if not his life. The Connecticut troops responded with a laugh, boasting that this was an omen of the easy time they would have with the egg-laying Tories their general had promised to take them against.

  They led van Clynne to a barn on the farmer's property where they were camped. Here they liberated their weapons, a healthy supply of ammunition, rations for the march — and a pipe of rum, to help speed their progress.

  The inn that Busch headed for after his horse pulled up lame was in fact the same establishment so recently darkened by Claus van Clynne. Indeed, the somewhat smelly odor of his folded dollar bill still hung in the air, midway between the chestnut floorboards and the white-washed ceiling. Missy Lina was hard at work scrubbing the floor with the aid of some fresh sand when Captain Busch stepped inside.

  "John Busch, I never," she said, standing. "We thought you'd gone and joined the Tories."

  "Not quite," said Busch, deciding on the spot to play the rebel for this old acquaintance. "I had forgotten this was your inn, Missy. Is your husband at home?"

  "He just walked up to Elmendorff s to sell some eggs for me," she said, wiping her hands. Missy gestured at the square table to Busch's right. "Sit down; I'll fetch you dinner."

  "I haven't time," said Busch. "I'm pursuing a rogue." He caught himself, just barely, from saying 'rebel.'

  "A Tory thief?"

  "Yes," said the ranger captain, who realized that by embellishing his lie he might win a horse with no trouble. It is not difficult to cobble a falsehood from the truth. "His name is Jake Smith. He stands six-foot-two, with very blond hair. Have you seen him?"

  "He sounds quite a lot like Claus van Clynne's friend," said Missy. "Which would certainly make him a rogue."

  Busch nodded, not knowing whom she meant but definitely wanting to encourage her. "He's my age or a little older," said Busch. "He gives his name as Jake Smith. He has the accent of a man from Philadelphia, and I daresay he is a clever sort. We must capture him directly."

  "That is exactly the man Claus described," said Missy. "But he said his last name was Gibbs."

  "Jake Gibbs? And who was this van Clynne?"

  Missy had never liked the squire and now gave full vent to her feelings. "As fat a Dutchman as any sow in the city of New York streets, I'm sorry to say."

  As her description continued, Busch realized that she was describing the man Smith — make it Gibbs — had harassed on the road, the man from the inn whose salt they had stolen. Suddenly the entire plot unfolded before his eyes: everything had been cleverly arranged to deceive him.

  No wonder they had been surprised above his father's farm. But the fact that his fat Dutch compatriot was searching for him must mean some part of their plot had gone awry. The rebel army must not yet know of the plan against the chain; if Gibbs could be captured quickly, they would be thwarted.

  "I've never heard of Claus being partial to the British," continued Missy. "Still, he is capable of almost anything." "I need a horse," said Busch. "Quickly. I think I know where this Gibbs fellow is headed." "Claus went north," said Missy hopefully. "A horse?"

  For a moment, the mistress of the inn hesitated. She and her husband had only one horse, and lending it to Busch, even for the good of the American Cause, entailed a severe sacrifice. Busch was just slipping his hand to his belt to retrieve a knife and force the issue when Missy set her jaw and shook her head so vigorously her kerchief slipped.

  "If it will help foil a Tory, I'm sure Jan would gladly lend it," said the woman.

  Van Clynne had been told that the rangers used Stoneman's as their camp. The Dutch squire therefore decided to strike there immediately, rather than waiting for them to attack the chain. He knew the farmer — an old countryman, barely six years removed from England — and was quite satisfied that his low opinions of him had been borne out by this perfidious association with the British forces.

  The distance from the inoculation barracks to Stoneman's was at least ten miles, even with the several shortcuts the Dutchman led his men over. This was an immense march, given their condition, and van Clynne found it necessary to keep up their spirits with a variety of exhortations and, in a few instances, complaints. Mounted on the fine carriage horse stolen from Keen — now equipped with a proper rein and saddle from the supply barn — he rode up and down the column cheering and chiding his troop. He made wild promises of success, and gave out not a few hints of fantastic rewards if only their pace could be accelerated.

  The result was severe disappointment when the men, formed into a picket line and charging through the woods, burst onto the grounds and discovered Stoneman's to be practically deserted. The only occupant was the former Tory and now ex-bully, Charles Wedget. The man sat on the ground between the barn and the house, picking at his unshod toes, lamenting his fate.

  Wedget took no notice of the Connecticut soldiers as they assaulted the place. They, in turn, were inclined to dismiss him as inconsequential, until they realized he was the only enemy they were likely to find here. They surrounded him and waited while their commander trotted his horse back and forth across the barnyard, in the forlorn hope of having somehow missed an entire company of rangers.

  By the time Private Martin flagged him down and asked what should be done about Wedget, van Clynne was in his habitual mode of complaint, grumbling about the fact that no one in the country was ever where they were supposed to be anymore.

  "We have a prisoner, sir," said Martin, breaking van Clynne's litany.

  "A prisoner! Excellent work. Lead me to him." The Dutchman slipped from his horse and the animal gave a whinny of gratitude, not because its physical burden had been eased but because the Dutchman's grumbling had begun to weigh on its nerves. "Is he armed? Has he barricaded himself in some makeshift fortress?"

  "Not exactly, sir. In fact, he is sitting alone in front of the barn, without a weapon or even shoes."

  "We will be on guard for some sort of trick," said van Clynne, approaching the knot of soldiers in front of the barn. "Reinforcements may be nearby. Search the rest of the farm." The Dutchman glanced over the crowd at the prisoner. "What is he doing?" "He appears to be talking to
his toes, sir." "Do they answer back?" "Not that I can tell."

  "That's something, at least," said the Dutchman. He took up a spot and observed Wedget a moment. The former bully had stopped playing with his feet, and was frowning toward the rest of the company in a somewhat threatening manner. But he made no sign to get up — wisely, as half a dozen muskets were pointed in his direction.

  "Well, sir," said van Clynne, stepping forward, "it seems we have finally met." Van Clynne bent to Wedget and extended his hand. "I have searched the entire countryside looking for you."

  "Run back to your hole, rebel. I have no idea who you are, and you won't trick information from me. I have sworn an oath."

  Wedget clamped his mouth shut, refusing to speak. Considerable beard stroking and even some hat preening followed before van Clynne decided on a new tactic. He sat in the dust with the man, then asked a variety of questions in the friendliest tone possible. None drew a response until he happened to ask if the man had met a Jake Smith, the name his companion had been using when he was last seen among the Tory rangers.

  "I'll kill him! I'll kill him! And any of his friends!" Wedget launched himself against the Dutchman's throat. Taken by surprise, van Clynne had everything he could do to avoid being throttled. It was only after two soldiers came to his aid that he was able to free himself.

  But the sudden outburst represented Wedget's last stand as a Tory. As he fussed against the two men holding him — they were able to bring him under control only by stomping on his wounded feet — van Clynne realized the man would now answer anything put to him. "What happened to your shoes?" he demanded. "Captain Busch took my shoes and left me here because he didn't want me to follow," answered Wedget. "Where did he go?" "To the river. There are men there. Jake Smith is a traitor and a rebel." "Where along the river? Do you know?" Wedget shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes. "Which road did he take?" asked the Dutchman. Wedget shook his head. "He was going to the cove and boats." "Which cove?" Again Wedget shook his head. "Should I twist your toes?" threatened the Dutchman.