by Jim DeFelice
Jake would have been struck through the heart by several pounds worth of exploding salt were it not for the marine who had manhandled him. The unfortunate redcoat acted as a human shield; in an instant, the back of his coat turned a much darker shade of red.
Now was Claus van Clynne's greatest moment. He had chosen his trajectory not merely to escape the impact of the explosion, but to be in a position to grasp the red-handled knife Keen had thrown down earlier. Rocks were still flying through the air as he rolled to his feet with his blade in his right hand and Keen's in his left. He reached Jake and sliced through the hanging rope with a bold stroke of his right hand, while plunging his left into a marine's belly. Van Clynne then hauled Jake's body upon his shoulder and courageously proceeded to the side of the ship, where he cursed King George III in a loud and bold voice, ignoring the pistols and cutlasses of the crew. Flashing his small dagger, he took a manrope between his teeth and slid gently to the boat where Martin was already waiting, making good their escape.
At least, that was the story the Dutchman would tell upon reaching shore. From Jake's point of view, the action proceeded in somewhat different fashion:
Tossed to the deck with no warning, the patriot managed just barely to stay conscious. The blast severed the halter rope, though its long strand remained attached to his neck. His arms and legs were still tightly bound, and he could not walk freely. The explosion had rocked the ship severely, and Jake found himself able to roll and crawl toward the fallen van Clynne and McRae. Spotting Keen's ruby knife in the smoke was not difficult, but pulling it from the wood — the doctor's throw had buried the sharp blade nearly to the hilt — took all his strength, and he worked it back and forth for what seemed like forever.
Fortunately, the crew members who were not wounded by the explosion immediately set to saving the ship, which listed severely to port. All manner of men ran back and forth around him. Smoke from two small fires filled the air, and the general din was rent by several wretches whose limbs had been severed by the blast. This was more than enough distraction for Jake, who finally succeeded in pulling the knife from the wood.
He had to twist to slice the rope around his hands, but eventually sawed himself free. As he pulled himself up, Jake felt a sharp tug on his neck and he fell backwards on the deck. Twisting around, he saw that McRae had grabbed the severed end of what was to have been his death rope and tied it around his waist.
The lieutenant held the rope with one hand. His other flashed a thick, heavy cutlass.
"The one consistency in everyone's story is that you are a damnable traitor and a rebel," said McRae, whose cocked hat had been knocked crossways by the explosion but was otherwise unharmed. "I shall take great pride in ending your life."
"And I yours," said Jake, managing to grab the rope as McRae tugged. He lurched forward even so, and was just able to force himself sideways, escaping the swing of the blade.
A naval cutlass is a heavy weapon created for hacking an opponent to bits. It is unmerciful in its blows, its weight multiplying the momentum several fold. But that advantage brings a problem to the man using it, for it lacks the finesse of a lighter sword.
McRae had used a cutlass to maim his share of opponents, but in his enthusiasm now found his slashes somewhat haphazard. Still tethered, Jake was able to retreat to a point where he could use a large, upended sea chest as a barrier between them. When McRae charged to the right, Jake slipped quickly to the left, and vice versa.
As the lieutenant took his charges, Jake worked more and more slack between his neck and the rope in his hand. This was naturally very dangerous, as it shortened the distance between the two men. But it also allowed him enough room to slip the thin but sharp blade of the Secret Department against the rope without McRae seeing. In a wink, the blade cut through.
Jake didn't let on. Instead, he waited while McRae collected himself for another lunge. As the British officer picked up his cutlass, Jake let go of the rope and dove to the right, falling below McRae's outstretched arm. The sword sailed down, slamming into the deck; in the next moment Jake was tumbling head over barefooted heels, kicking upward as he passed.
He aimed for McRae's face but missed. He hit the officer's hand instead, which was good enough — the smack sent the cutlass flying to the deck, and it slid away as the ship rolled.
McRae was too maddened to retreat. Instead, he reached to his belt for a knife — then fell forward, pulled off balance by van Clynne, who had grabbed his ankle from the deck nearby. Jake's knife quickly put an end to the English officer's career. "Over the side," the patriot shouted as he pulled his Dutch companion to his feet.
"Easy for you to say," grumbled van Clynne, who wobbled from obstruction to obstruction before reaching the rail. There, one look at the deep blue water — the very deep blue water — and its rolling waves was enough to give him pause for reflection.
The fire was now almost under control. While sailors were still rushing around, some of the marine guards had appeared on deck with their muskets armed. One fired in the general direction of van Clynne, which cured his contemplative mood. He lifted a foot tentatively — then felt himself flying toward the dark, hideous waves, propelled by a quick shove from Jake.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Wherein, the river proves more crowded than expected.
There are no good fuses to be found any more. The first business of Congress once peace is established ought to be the propagation of proper fuses. Imagine if the situation had been dire."
"I can't imagine it more dire," said Jake, working his long oar fiercely. He and Martin had hauled van Clynne aboard the whaleboat and were now rowing furiously up river, away from the Richmond. At any moment he expected the frigate to send a broadside their way, or launch boats in pursuit. Their comparatively empty boat rode high in the water, except at the stern where the Dutchman was stationed by the tiller.
"You were never in any danger," replied van Clynne. He guided the craft with one hand, using the other to clear the light rain from his face. As proper steering demanded he look at the water, the boat's course tended to wander. "We were ready to take you off at any moment. When Claus van Clynne and his men appear on a scene, you may rest easy."
"Turn the tiller to the right! Your right!" said Jake. "I will admit that things are always interesting when you are involved," he added, conscious that despite the thick bruise on his neck, the Dutchman had indeed saved his life. "For the moment, we'd better concentrate on making our escape."
"You are rowing wonderfully. The Richmond has been severely hampered by my charge, and is in no position to harry us further. I envision a long period in the repair shed for her. They may even take her out to sea and shoot her, as is done with a horse."
Van Clynne had no sooner made this prediction than the air was rent by a dozen or more cannon. Fortunately, the ship was listing severely and could not be maneuvered for a proper aim. Only one ball came close enough to send a spray of water near them. Jake and Martin nonetheless pushed their oars with renewed vigor. "How many troops did Old Put send to the shore with you?" Jake asked van Clynne. "Well, none, exactly." "None?"
Van Clynne's answer was drowned by the reverberation of a second cannonade. The gunners had compensated somewhat for their ship's handicaps, and the whaleboat took some water from the resulting waves.
"Has Putnam sent his entire army to watch the chain?" Jake asked.
"If the truth be told, I never reached the general," said van Clynne. "I was waylaid by that scoundrel Keen, who tortured me nearly to death."
"Did a girl named Rose meet you?"
"She did indeed, but I decided it would be most efficient if we divided our efforts, taking separate routes," said the Dutchman. "I sent her by the shortest route possible, while I meandered on a side road. I have no doubt that she reached the general, and that the entire army of the Highlands is presently on alert."
A fresh broadside whizzed through the air, and the three Americans found themselves in a
cloud of steam and hot waves. When it cleared, Jake saw a cutter emerging from the far side of the Richmond, beginning its pursuit. The boat was manned by oarsmen and had a sail besides, and moved toward them with the speed and deadly purpose of a bloodthirsty shark.
"Throw your body against the tiller to steady it," Jake shouted at van Clynne. "Take us to the shore. It's our only chance."
"We only have to get around that bend," said van Clynne, pointing ahead briefly before closing his eyes to steady his stomach.
"We don't stand a chance on the water."
"We have a surprise waiting for the British bastards," said Martin. "General van Clynne is quite clever."
"General van Clynne?"
"Captain-general," expanded Martin, with only the slightest hint of impishness, "triple-cluster."
"It is a hereditary title which I seldom use," said van Clynne. "Row, man, row."
Jake's response was drowned out by yet another round of cannon fire from the ship. Fortunately, this proved to be a rather half-hearted attempt at striking them, and only one ball came near enough to present a threat.
It was also close enough to send van Clynne's beloved beaver hat sailing into the water.
The hat had been in the Dutchman's possession since he was a small lad, and had been constructed from pelts hand-selected for him by members of a small Iroquois Indian band who had befriended his father. And so van Clynne's reaction was natural — momentarily forgetting not only his duties as helmsman but his phobia of the waves, he threw himself across the gunwale and snatched it from the water.
His effort came exceedingly close to spilling them overboard, and it was only with the greatest effort that Jake and Private Martin were able to keep the craft afloat. All forward momentum was lost, and the cutter was able to make significant progress toward them — so much so that a marine in the bow felt he was close enough to stand and fire.
His shot splintered a piece of the gunwale between Jake and van Clynne, but its main effect was to rally the Americans back to action.
"Push the tiller to your left, to your left!" ordered Jake as he struggled to get them moving again. "Take us in to shore!"
"I'm trying," answered van Clynne, his face a mixture of determination and nausea. The cove he had launched from was nestled like the mouth of a funnel between two large outcroppings of rocks and fallen trees; it seemed to have moved three miles in the few hours since he'd left.
By the time they made the turn, the Richmond's boat had closed to within thirty yards. As Jake pumped his oar, he watched the sharpshooter place another cartridge at the top of his gun barrel, then ram it home with a deliberate and determined motion. The churning current threw off his aim, however, and the bullet sailed well overhead.
No matter. He calmly prepared another shot.
The cutter had been put under the direction of a senior midshipman, whose shouts and curses echoed against the banks. When he saw that the whaleboat was turning toward shore, he trimmed his vessel for a sweeping turn that would protect against a possible feint and run for the north. There was blood in his voice, and undoubtedly he hoped a successful action would play heavily in his quest for an officer's commission.
The cannon and gunfire had one positive effect, considered from the American side — the Connecticut men on shore were well prepared as their "general's" boat rounded the rock outcropping and slid toward the cove.
Which meant that they were nowhere in sight; not a comforting fact for Jake as he pulled with all his might. Poor Martin two benches before him was exhausted and ready to drop; only the danger of their situation kept him upright at his post, the doughty private struggling on pure willpower alone.
As the cutter cleared the rocks behind them, the sniper prepared another shot. His boat pressed to overtake the Americans before they reached the shore, and angled between the rocky shore on the right side and sunken tree branches on the left. The distance between the two boats shrank steadily from twenty yards to ten, until finally they were within spitting distance. The cutter continued to gain as it neared the submerged tree trunk on the left, a mere twenty yards from shore.
Jake had just realized they would not reach the pebbly beach when a shout went up from the rocks. In that instant, the water in front of the cutter rose up mightily and the ship was upended, marines and sailors flying in all directions.
"This chain of yours gave me an idea," said van Clynne as Jake put down his oars in astonishment. "A rope can be made to serve the same purpose, if it is a thick, fine rope levered with trees and stout men. The van Clynne of ropes, in fact."
The rope was that magnificent weave of hemp discovered earlier in Stoneman's. Those same stout men who had pulled it taut at the last possible instant now emerged from the woods, muskets loaded with double shot. The water perked with good, American lead, well aimed; a froth of blood quickly covered the surface, and the whine of stricken Englishmen soon filled the air. Jake, Martin, and van Clynne were pulled ashore, and the Connecticut company gave a shout of hurrah as the survivors of their ambush quickly surrendered.
But there was no time to celebrate.
"Gentlemen, you've done good work here, but our battle is just beginning," declared Jake as the troop reformed. His officer's voice hit full stride as Freedom herself perked up his timbre. "The province's safety, and perhaps of our whole country, relies on the integrity of the Great Chain thrown across the Hudson north of here. Even as I speak, a force of despicable Tories and British marines are mustering against it. The Continentals who have been alerted may not realize where the real danger is, and so it is up to us — we will have to stop them. We will have to kill the Tory bastards with our bare hands if we have to! Get the horses and follow me!"
"Begging your pardon, sir," said one of the men respectfully. "But Captain-General van Clynne is our leader. He has taken us this far."
"That reminds me — "
"Gentlemen, I turn over my command to Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs," the Dutchman said quickly. "He has a tactical sense of the situation that I could not possibly challenge. When we have finished this next phase of our assault, I shall, er, resume my rightful position."
Jake was in too much of a hurry to scold van Clynne on his shameless self-promotion. Nor did he note tartly, as he might have, that the Dutchman was coming up in the world, having progressed from a landless squire to a general of fantastic rank.
"Take the horses and follow me," Jake shouted, running to the animals the rangers had tied here. His boots were still sodden from his brief plunge in the water before boarding the whaleboat, but he nonetheless managed to leap atop the biggest horse he saw.
“Claus, the best road north along the river,” Jake commanded. “We need to reach Anthony's Nose before nightfall."
"Less than an hour," grumbled the Dutchman, heading for his horse. "They are not making days as long as they used to."
Chapter Thirty-nine
Wherein, certain matters of strategy and geography are laid out as the two forces race northward.
As they raced northwards, Jake was somewhat surprised to find that van Clynne, contrary to his usual habits, not only galloped along every bit as fast as the rest of the company, but hardly uttered half his usual complaints against the roads, the weather, or the British. He didn't even open his mouth to show them shortcuts, merely pointing the way to country paths that sliced off precious moments from their route. Perhaps the mantle of leadership agreed with him.
Jake realized Busch's plan had a major flaw — the Tory would be highly vulnerable once he separated from the diversionary forces and the Dependence. The trick for the patriots would be to get around the screening ranger force and avoid the Dependence.
The woods of upper Westchester were heavy with shadows, and the leaves crinkled with the ever-growing rain. Jake put up his hand to halt the column and let it catch its collective breath while he consulted with van Clynne.
"Where can we get boats along the river near Peeks Kill?" he asked the Dutchman.
"During peaceful times I would direct us to Lent's Cove," said van Clynne, "as we are only a few miles away. But Annsville Creek further north will be much surer. Francis Penmart's Dock is near the road to the King's Highway, and inevitably there will be boats idle."
"Can I get to the chain from Lent's Cove?"
"In almost a straight line north," conceded van Clynne. "But if they are attacking ashore, the British will most likely land at the cove and move northwards, as they did at the end of March. I know a man named Green who lives on the cove," added the Dutchman, twirling his beard. "He inflates his prices and his politics have been questioned. Now, on the Annsville, there is a good Dutchman who will rent his craft out for a few pence below the going rate, and they are a higher quality besides."
"Take us to Green." Jake glanced northward, as if he could see their destination through the thick trees and growing rain. It was almost nightfall; the attack might already be underway. "We'll risk whatever we must to make up the time. If we run into the rangers, I will go ahead to the river or wherever I can find a boat. You lead the men."
"But if we stay inland, our chances — "
"Come on, General, there's no time to lose," smirked Jake, picking up his horse's reins and getting the party into motion again with a good kick of his heels. "I would think a captain-general would not waste a moment when the enemy is at hand."
"It is a hereditary title only," mumbled van Clynne.
The Tories had proceeded upriver at a slower though nonetheless deliberate pace, shepherded by the Dependence. Their first test came at King's Ferry, which despite the name was held by American troops.
