The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  "They're going to the Richard, a boat or something." Wedget erupted into tears, and van Clynne realized his usefulness was at an end.

  "That might be the Richmond," suggested Martin. "It's a British ship off Dobb's Ferry or thereabouts. We've heard talk of it."

  The mention of the word ship brought with it the necessary association of water, and van Clynne's cheeks momentarily paled. He turned from his soldiers and began calculating the number of coves on the river between Peekskill and Dobb's; the number ran to the hundreds.

  But you would not need a cove if you rode to Dobb's, or any place where wharfs and docks would make boarding boats a routine matter. So van Clynne decided to eliminate Dobb's and the vicinity. The cove in question must be either in Tory hands or sparsely settled country, which would most likely place it above Tarrytown; while there were many Tories still on the old Phillipse ground thereabouts, the patriots were strong enough to alert American troops and might be expected to take some action against a force of rangers.

  One by one, van Clynne eliminated potential landings. While all of this mental process was severe work — several beakers of ale would have been of great assistance — he at last concluded that there were two likely candidates, both a few miles north of Tarrytown, and both formerly used by certain Dutch merchants to avoid the complications of British taxes. Van Clynne was just trying to decide which to try first when a shout came from the barn.

  "We've captured an entire wagonload of salt, General," one of the soldiers declared. "There's enough here to keep the countryside in beef for a year."

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne proceeds toward the river, as does his nemesis, Major Dr. Keen.

  So was Claus van Clynne reunited with his salt. This development greatly cheered him, as he interpreted it as a sign that Providence would reward him for his efforts. Indeed, he went so far as to believe that his luck had improved several fold. Not only would he save the chain and get his land back, but the name van Clynne would be celebrated with the likes of Adams and Washington.

  While van Clynne was engaged in these flights of optimism, the Connecticut troops he had appropriated to his command were busy scouring the grounds for additional supplies and items that might help them. They discovered a half-keg of explosive powder and a few fuses, and a large and lengthy rope. This was no ordinary string, as it stretched over thirty yards. It seemed to have been constructed of fine Asian hemp and was particularly elastic. Being the George Washington of ropes, the men insisted on taking it with them; you could never have enough string in an emergency.

  Four horses had been left at the farm. The Dutchman now discovered himself at the head of a mounted column — three privates apiece on the horses, with the rest of the men crowded atop the salt wagon, pulled by its ox and a horse. Several large white canvas sheets had been tied over the contents of the cart, for the sky looked threatening, and the Dutchman did not want to lose his salt a second time.

  While overall the arrangement might seem a bit motley, it promised better progress than on foot. The soldiers clung to their various stations with good cheer, happy to be freed of the boredom of their quarantine. The easy victory at Stoneman's fired their optimism and bravery; they sang as they fell in behind their leader, (hereditary) Captain-General, triple-cluster, Claus van Clynne.

  No general, hereditary or otherwise, was ever prouder of his men. The only thing the Dutchman lacked was a proper insignia of rank, and as he proceeded he tried to decide if their route would take them near any place where he might find a sword or epaulette.

  While these thoughts may seem a diversion from his true task, in fact they helped spur van Clynne along. For had he been left to concentrate solely on the next stage of his mission, the good Dutchman might have severely faltered.

  The reader will recall that Achilles’ mother Thetis, wishing to make him invulnerable, dipped him in the River Styx, with the result that his entire body became invulnerable, except for that small part of his heel which was not immersed. A somewhat different result had occurred when, as a small child, Claus had been dunked in a barrel filled with water and kept there near to drowning.

  While he had overcome his severe aversion to the sea in order to accomplish his last mission in New York, he was far from cured of this affliction and wished strongly to avoid anything to do with water. Had he contemplated the possibility of missing the Tories at the cove, and drawn the next logical conclusion — that they must be met on the river, aboard the Richmond — van Clynne's haughty tone and fearless direction surely would have faltered. Indeed, he began to hiccup uncontrollably as the column drew in sight of the Hudson.

  Aside from two or three lost seagulls, the shoreline of the first cove was empty, and showed no sign of having been visited by the Tory party.

  "They must be at von Beefhoffen's," the Dutchman said hopefully. "Quickly, men — I know a shortcut that will get us there within a quarter hour."

  As van Clynne and his followers were hurrying down the valley, another traveler was proceeding in somewhat the same direction.

  Major Dr. Harland Keen carried Rose on his horse to the charred remains of the cottage where he had tortured van Clynne. His carriage was still out front. Except for the fact that it had been ransacked by van Clynne in a futile search for his coins, the vehicle was in fine shape, its many concoctions and paraphernalia intact.

  The same could not be said for his dead driver, whose battered body still lay before the ruins. The fire had burned a portion of his face away; even the hardened doctor felt some tingle, some shadow of grief as he dragged the dead man into the woods. A pair of ravens sat in the high trees nearby, undoubtedly angry that their morning meal was being stolen.

  Percival's brief but valuable service had earned him a proper burial, but Keen did not have time to supply it. Instead, he threw two blankets retrieved from the ruins over him, vowing that the proper dignities would be accorded at some point in the near future, if not by Keen, then by forces he would direct hither.

  After dressing his own wound and procuring a fresh jacket from the coach, Keen took Rose down from the horse. Her eyes remained tightly closed, her mouth agape, her reddish brown curls hanging in a tangle to the ground, as if she were Guinevere under some spell of Merlin's. Placing her on the carriage seat, he put fresh iron cuffs on her wrists. Rose slept the entire time, so heavily drugged that what should have been an expression of alarm and concern on her face was instead a vague smile.

  Keen, tempted by the thin folds of the dress bunched up to reveal her naked leg, considered taking at least a portion of his revenge immediately. He forestalled himself, realizing revenge was best extracted at leisure, and after giving her a rough pat and fixing her clothes as if worried about modesty, ran to the woods and retrieved van Clynne's coins from their hiding place.

  As he placed the pouches beneath the coach's rear seat, he caught a reflection of himself in the eyepiece of a small spyglass he kept there. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes — his eyes had that wild character so many of his critics had used in London as proof that he was mad. Truly, he told himself, they had confused genius with madness, high intellect with insanity — but nonetheless he paused to fix his hair, then took some paint to daub his cheeks and soften his brow. Finally, he retrieved a thin green vial from his store of medicines in the back; bracing himself, he uncorked it and drained the contents, forcing the liquid down against the natural reaction of his throat and gullet.

  He only barely prevented himself from retching. Keen clamped his teeth together tightly and fought against the reaction; his fingers swung tight on the carriage wheel, holding on for support as tremors ravished his body. One hundred and seventy-six seconds of hell, and it was over; he felt the effects of the drug immediately.

  The ill-tasting potion was his greatest discovery, made from a long list of expensive and difficult to obtain herbs and vapors. The slightly modified Egyptian formula promised immortality. While
he doubted it could live up to that claim, Keen knew that each time he survived the bitter taste and reactions, he emerged refreshed and invigorated, and looked as if he were in his mid-twenties, despite his white hair.

  He picked up his cane and leaned inside the coach door to tap the supine girl on her leg.

  "Perhaps, my dear, I will give you a taste of this elixir. Eternal life would suit you — after we make a few other amendments to your constitution."

  Keen laughed aloud and climbed up into the open driver's seat. He did not have a map, nor did he know the area. But the river surely lay to the west, and if he went in that direction he eventually would find a place where he could hire a boat and have himself rowed out.

  Despite the thick clouds obscuring its path, the sun had already reached its meridian point in the sky when "General" van Clynne dispatched an advance party of his troops to scout the defenses of the second cove. As he waited with his main force, the Dutchman found his thoughts beginning to wander. He thought of his favorite gelding, left at the Mischief Inn; he thought of his companion Jake Gibbs, undoubtedly still disguised among the ranger troop.

  And he thought, alas, of the river, and the dangers of traveling upon it if the Tories had been missed.

  For a moment van Clynne wondered if it might be prudent in that case to hold his assault off until dark, when he would at least have the advantage of not seeing the waves before him.

  But then a voice spoke in loud tones to his inner ear. It was so cantankerous, so cranky, so dour, that it could only belong to one person — Grandfather van Clynne.

  "Listen to me, you no-account youngster, and listen good. This is your chance to win back our homestead. Get your fat arse out on the river or I will kick it there. Fail me, and never call yourself a van Clynne again!" "Sir? General van Clynne?" Van Clynne shook the apparition out of his brain and looked across at Private Martin, who had addressed him. "General?" "Hereditary general, remember," said van Clynne. "Captain-general, triple-cluster."

  "Whatever you say, sir," said Martin. "There are horses and boats by the river, but only one guard," continued the private. "Should we attack?"

  "Stealth, my boy, that is our strategy," said van Clynne. "I remember advising my good friend His Excellency General Washington the same thing on the eve of Trenton."

  "You were at Trenton with General Washington?"

  "Well, not precisely at the time," said the Dutchman, turning to his men. "You two execute a flanking maneuver from the roadside, you three come up the shoreline. The rest of us will give you a five-minute start, and then we will descend on them all, shouting like wilden."

  "Wilden?"

  "Indians, lad, Indians. Honestly, how long have you boys lived in this country?"

  Whether van Clynne had actually been in the vicinity of Trenton — and the reader would be well advised to consume the full contents of his salt wagon before accepting that statement at face value — his plan here worked perfectly. The lone ranger guard was surprised and routed without firing a shot. While the man at first refused to give any information, van Clynne's direction that he be tied to a tree with a bonfire started at his feet soon changed his opinion.

  Unfortunately, he knew nothing beyond the fact that the rangers had arrived here two hours before and taken boats out to meet the British warship, and that Captain Busch had arrived in a frenzy fifteen minutes ago, searching for a man named Smith or Gibbs. The North River swelled and roiled angrily as the Dutchman turned to face it. With a gulp, he turned back quickly to shore. "What I wouldn't give now for a cold pewter cup of nut-brown ale," sighed the Dutchman. "There's bound to be some waiting aboard ship," said a voice that sounded suspiciously like his grandfather's.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Wherein, Jake and the Tories reach the Richmond.

  We shall turn back time to briefly summarize the actions of the rangers during the last two hours, as we have missed some coming and going while attending Claus van Clynne and his brave group of Connecticut men.

  Earl Graycolmb, the villains' sponsor, would no doubt have been proud of the way the rangers rallied from their humiliating trials to arrive in grandeur at the obscure river landing west of Clark's Corners at midmorning. Their spirits had been quite restored, and even the sergeant felt his headache lifting slightly — until he dismounted.

  A half-dozen large whaleboats had been secreted near the shore. The Tories needed only three, and even then could have fit several more men aboard each. After leaving a single man to guard the horses, they set out for their waterborne rendezvous. Though they were several hours early, they soon spotted a small boat headed upriver in their direction. Two volleys from the rangers were answered by a single pistol shot, and the sergeant quickly directed his men toward what proved to be one of the Richmond's boats.

  The inexperienced rowers had difficulty coordinating their strokes at first, earning various shouts of derision from the midshipman in charge of the Richmond's craft. Finally, they began to make progress, and within an hour spotted the frigate, which lay south of Dobb's Ferry, a Tory stronghold.

  The frigate Richmond was smaller and lighter than the immense ships of the line that stood at the head of Britain's naval might. She carried only thirty-two cannon and was designed to be manned by just over two hundred men; even a smallish third-rater would have twice as many guns and more than twice as many men, sitting a full deck higher in the water. Nonetheless, the Richmond was impressive in the comparatively narrow confines of the river, lording it over her escort the Mercury, a 20-gun craft with a checkered career whom she had captured earlier in the year off Antigua.

  The rangers approached behind the lead of the Richmond's boat, rowing alongside the ship where a series of shouts and odd whistles welcomed them to climb aboard. Their weapons were ordered left behind; they would neither require them aboard ship nor be missing them very long, the boat's mate declared.

  Jake leapt to one of the manropes and walked himself up the side of the ship to the entry port. This was a bit harder to do in practice than in theory, as the river was moving with particular vigor, rocking the ship back and forth. Jake mistimed his first leap, catching the painted yellow hull with one boot and one knee; unfortunately, this was the knee he had hurt several days before. His ligaments promptly reminded him he had not kept his promise to go easy on them.

  Aboard ship, a sailor greeted the rangers with a contemptuous sneer. Obviously some sort of petty officer, though just as clearly not a gentleman, he had a brace of pistols in his belt and a thick naval cutlass hanging from a shoulder baldric that could have been stolen from a regimental drummer, given its ornate design and incongruity with the rest of his dress. This consisted of striped trousers that appeared loose enough for harem duty and a white shirt that had more stains than the average dishrag. If Jake were not playing the role of a Tory he would have found it difficult to maintain a straight face.

  There was, nonetheless, a primitive efficiency about the man, as well as an air of toughness that perhaps owed more to the tavern district of the city where he had been recruited than life at sea. Jake nodded at him, and joined the other rangers loosely mustering at the side of the deck, next to a large, long crate covered by a canvas sheet. The identity of the item or items was concealed by the tarpaulin, which dominated that quarter of the deck and was guarded by two marines with loaded weapons.

  A handful of other lobster-coats milled in the general vicinity, but they left the rangers to themselves, as if some native disease might infect them if they got too close. The sailors in the meantime went about their business without giving much notice to anyone, indiscriminate scowls pasted to their faces.

  When the troop was all aboard, their sergeant attempted to muster them into order behind the tarpaulin. At that point, two officers approached. Had their feet not touched the broad deck planks they could scarce have had less authority about them. Nor was this air due solely to their elegant, long blue coats or the immaculate white knickers and vests. Their long,
confident strides carried them quickly across the oaken deck, and the two marines assigned as their guard had to practically trot to keep up. The sailor who had shown the rangers aboard turned up at their right and announced in a loud voice that he had the honor of presenting his lordship Earl Graycolmb's Doughty Rangers to Captain John Lewis Gidoin and the honorable, if still somewhat young, Captain Sir George Valden.

  The men could have been presented to King George himself with less fuss. The ranger sergeant, clearly awed, stepped forward and saluted.

  "Captain. Captain. I am Sergeant Robert Lewis, t-temporarily in charge of Earl Graycolmb's Loyal — "

  Captain Valden did not wait for Lewis to finish before demanding to know where in shitten hell — and worse — Busch was.

  Lewis was not exactly a choir mouse, and had heard stronger language even on the Sabbath. Nonetheless, the spew of curses that emanated from Valden's mouth in connection with his question took the sergeant by surprise. In his view of the world, British gentlemen — and most especially anyone to whom the word "sir" was ascribed as an adjective — spoke in words that wouldn't flutter the meekest butterfly. "Well, speak up, you arse. What the shitten damn hell happened to Captain Busch?" "He's been detained, sir," said Jake when the sergeant was unable to speak. "Detained where?" "We were ambushed by the river during our mission to spy on the chain." "And the sister-rogering turd rebels captured him?"

  "No, sir, he escaped, but was unable to make it back to the rendezvous." Jake thought it wise not to mention his own adventures in jail, though that meant suppressing a desire to hear what new concoction of curses the inventive British captain might cobble together in his honor.