The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  Jake's guess about the effects of the wind and current on the bomb canoe was correct. Towed behind an ordinary dugout canoe manned by Busch and the sailor he had recruited on the Richmond, its bow was a heavy anchor. The craft kept sliding against its tow rope, trying to change direction; it was a struggle to make any progress at all.

  Nonetheless, they kept at it. Busch's determined example rallied the hulking sailor at the rear of the canoe. The man, whom the ranger captain had chosen largely for the size of his shoulders and chest, began now to pay back the faith shown in him. A lull in the wind presented an opening, and they began a steady climb against the passion of the water. The chain, stretched across its wooden logs, lay ahead; at this slow but steady pace, it would take no more than a few minutes to reach.

  "Come now," said Busch aloud to the sailor behind him. "There's a thousand guineas' reward waiting if we bull the rebels' iron in half."

  "Why didn't you say so earlier!" exclaimed the sailor, redoubling his efforts.

  At least one subject of His Majesty King George III did not need any hint of pecuniary reward to fire his energy on this dark night. Major Dr. Harland Keen had all the motivation he needed-indeed, one might say he was over-motivated, with a surfeit of evil energy burning at the core of his twisted soul.

  The blast of van Clynne's salt barrel had knocked Keen against one of the ship's masts with such force that he lay unconscious on the deck for several minutes. During that time, the rebels escaped and the Richmond's crew went about the business of securing the vessel with no attention to him. His prostrate body was treated much as a broken and discarded spar might have been; indeed, the lumber might have received more concern, as it would have potentially played some role in the operation of the ship.

  There were many wounded men aboard, but the victim whose injuries were most important was the ship herself. She leaned badly to port, where the explosion had sent a jagged finger downward to yank at the keel, cracking the boards badly enough to allow water to flood the lower gun deck. The sailors worked madly to seal this breach, which was as severe and deadly as any inflicted by a warship in battle.

  While they were at least not subject to bombardment as they worked, the circumstances of the blast, the peculiar shape of the resulting wound, and the disruptive effect on the boat's entire structure presented problems that would have challenged even Admiral Drake's hand-picked and battle-hardened crew on the Golden Hind. The approaching darkness and gathering storm clouds, which kicked up the wind and the river's waves, added to their difficulties. The few ill-aimed rounds they threw at the rebels were mere tokens, and the small force they sent in the cutter was the most Captain Gidoin could spare to preserve British honor without losing his chances of preserving his ship.

  The Richmond had been ripped from her anchors by the blast, and drifted for some time before she could be brought fully under control. The vessel was not the biggest in the British fleet, nor the strongest, but still she had her pride. With great creaks and groans she pulled her timbers together, aided by the ministrations of her retainers. She had been well engineered and manufactured; her breeding finally won out over the grievous hurt that had been inflicted.

  By the time Keen had regained enough of his senses to push himself upright on the deck and wipe his brow with his hand, the master of the Richmond felt reasonably sure his ship would survive. But several more hours of close work remained before it could proceed south to New York City and permanent repairs.

  Keen had no desire to go with her, much less help tend the wounded around him, though since he was a doctor such might be considered his moral duty. His entire concern was the Dutchman, who had managed to outwit him.

  Keen's enmity for the squire reached apocalyptic proportions, and incited in him a positively artistic hate. He saw himself flaying van Clynne alive while turning him on a spit, the fire fueled by the oozing strips of human fat. He envisioned the construction of an elaborate apparatus that would sustain the squire's heart while his legs and arms were sawed off. He foresaw all manner of hideous tortures that would have put the storied Borgias to shame.

  "I will have a boat," he said to Captain Gidoin once he recovered. The ship's master started to object, but the unworldly look in Keen's eyes warned him off. He quickly gave the order to have the major rowed ashore, even though he could ill afford to spare the men.

  Keen stood in the bow of the small boat as it was rowed toward the spot on shore where he had left his carriage. There was an immediate obstacle to his plans for revenge — he had no idea where van Clynne was.

  He could, however, make certain assumptions, the most important being that the Dutchman would endeavor to thwart the operation against the chain. To do so, he would undoubtedly enlist the assistance of the main American forces in the area, under General Putnam. Putnam, or one of his officers, would therefore know of his whereabouts.

  Keen had observed that van Clynne was steadfastly loyal to his underlings — he had risked a great deal to save this Gibbs. How much more would he do to rescue the pretty young Miss McGuiness, bundled in the rear of Keen's carriage? Could she not be used to lure him to his fate?

  Rose did not answer when the doctor put the question to her. This was largely due to the fact that she was still unconscious; the Chinese sleeping concoction he had administered before setting off to the Richmond would render her senseless for many hours yet.

  The doctor took a lingering look at her body, limp and untrussed on the seat. Her legs were spread carelessly and she looked for all the world like a garden nymph, caught asleep beneath a lilac bush.

  With great resolve, Keen forced himself to concentrate on his goal of revenge and closed the door to the coach. Without a clear plan yet, he began driving north toward Marshad's cottage; ruined as it was, it was the only spot in the area he knew.

  Indeed, his ignorance of the country now worked against him. On his journey from New York he had relied exclusively on the knowledge of his driver. It was easy enough to find the river from the shore; one kept trying roads that headed west until it was reached. But finding Marshad's, especially in the growing darkness, was another story entirely.

  And so the reader will not wonder that Keen was soon lost, and he realized he must enlist some native as a guide. This person could then be put to a second use — he would be dispatched to Putnam's headquarters, and told to find van Clynne.

  Keen did not construct this scenario all at once; indeed, it took his fevered mind nearly a half hour's worth of travel before he conceded to himself that he was indeed lost. By that point, the chances of haphazardly coming across someone who would know the way to Marshad's — indeed, the chances of coming across anyone — were very limited. He therefore decided that he must stop at some inn or similar establishment and enlist aid there.

  The inn he happened on was Prisco's.

  Keen's clothes had been rent in the blast, and his face covered with bruises. But a few daubs of paint on his forehead and a fresh jacket — he chose brown, mindful of van Clynne's earlier remarks on local fashion — restored some dash to his appearance; when he walked into the inn he looked no worse than most of the patrons. Indeed, he outshone them all, as this was a particularly slow evening for the Prisco establishment — its only customers were the two uncommunicative checkers-playing gentlemen Jake had met earlier.

  Keen gave the proprietor a polite smile when he greeted him at the threshold, and allowed himself to be shown to a Windsor-style chair that stood in front of a round hickory table arm's length from the fire. Prisco allowed as how he had some very fine rabbit stew left in the kitchen; Keen nodded and asked for some Madeira with which to wash it down. The order was taken up cheerfully — the good keeper made a nice profit on his wine sales.

  "My niece will take care of you," said Prisco, retreating toward a back room.

  The doctor saw his course fully developing; he would take this girl as a guide to the countryside, keeping her for his own pleasure once he had succeeded in luring his nem
esis to destruction.

  The second portion of his plan was abandoned as soon as Jane entered the room with a fine leather bottle of wine in her hand. As the reader has already seen sweet Jane described, there is no immediate need to amplify. It will be granted by all — with the natural exception of her true love, Claus van Clynne — that she is not, in any conventional sense, beautiful. Even the word "plain" is stretched somewhat to describe her.

  But her instinct and intellect — now those are handsome indeed. Jane immediately realized that the stranger had some evil design in mind, and so she was on her guard as she approached his table. "Thank you, my dear," said Keen, beaming a smile at her. "I wonder — do you know who General Putnam is?" Jane looked at him oddly. "I doubt there is a person in the country who doesn't." Keen smiled. "And you know where to find him?"

  "At his headquarters, I suppose." She leaned down to pour the wine, deciding that the man before her was a harmless simpleton. But the guest's next question showed her first instincts had been quite correct. "I wonder, could you tell me the way to Marshad's cottage?" "Martin Marshad?" she asked, endeavoring to keep her voice neutral. "The lawyer?" Keen nodded.

  Marshad was a notorious — at least in her mind — Tory and spy; her visitor had just declared himself a perfidious skunk. Jane decided in an instant that she would alert her uncle, who as a member of the Committee of Safety and the local justice of the peace could have him arrested. Something in her manner gave her away; as she poured the wine into Keen's glass, she suddenly felt a cold hand clamp onto her arm.

  "Do not scream, my dear," said the doctor. "I require your services as a guide and as a messenger." He smiled, and nodded with his head toward his left hand, which held Jake Gibbs's Segallas, stolen from Rose. "This weapon has two bullets left, so that after I shoot you, I can kill your uncle without bothering to take a second pistol from my belt. Let us get your cloak; I wouldn't want you to catch your death in this rain."

  Chapter Forty-two

  Wherein, the shortcomings of birch as a naval material are briefly but thoroughly surveyed.

  As glorious and adaptable as the birch canoe may be, it was not designed to withstand the grapeshot of a swivel gun, let alone the heavier calibers of cannonball. Jake and Private Martin were well aware of this defect, their joyful chorus of "Yankee Doodle" notwithstanding, and they paddled away from the Dependence with all they were worth. The galley, meanwhile, was engaged in several battles at once — besides the pesky singers passing off its side, the ship was firing at the shore to support its troops and maneuvering desperately to avoid the rocks close to shore. Given the darkness of the night, the confusion, and the wind that began to whip up, it would be but a mild surprise to find that they missed the little canoe entirely.

  Alas, one cannot always count on surprises, mild or otherwise. The second blast from the nearest swivel gun was followed by a light patter somewhat similar to the sound rain makes on shale, assuming the rain is several degrees hotter than boiling and the shale much thinner than paper. The bark of the canoe literally disintegrated in a puff of steam and smoke. Martin fell face first into the water, striking his head with such force that he was knocked senseless. Jake was able to stay upright and hold onto his oar, which provided some comfort if not protection as a wave dashed him into a large and not very soft rock. He clambered onto it, then saw Martin's distress; he dove back into the river just as a sailor aimed the Dependence's swivel at him.

  The bullets ricocheted off the rocks and sent up a pronounced splash, but once more the patriot spy had escaped harm, his impulse to save the soldier proving his own salvation. In two quick strokes he reached Martin and hauled him over his shoulder; Jake found a sandy spot on the shore and pulled him up to safety.

  By now the galley was too concerned with its other problems to waste time bothering with shipwrecked singers. Jake quickly propped the unconscious Martin against a tree, then began racing north along the shoreline, heedless of the sharp rocks and cragged roots beneath his feet. Within a league, the soles of his wet boots were sliced through, his ankles swelling from the severe pounding against the uneven terrain. His lungs were near bursting and his knee was sorely strained.

  How much further he could have gone before collapsing — even Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs must have his limits — will remain an unanswered question, for Providence had decided in her generosity to provide him with a small, open rowboat, a fisherman's craft complete with oars and tackle, placed directly in his path. Jake jumped into the boat with great haste, more sure than ever that God was on the side of the Revolution.

  The Creator undoubtedly is, but if He placed the small boat there, He is not without a sense of humor. For Jake had gotten only a few yards out from shore when he noticed water lapping against his sore ankles; a few more strokes and he realized the water was now to his calves. He put his back into the oars and hauled with all his might, hoping that he might somehow avoid or at least lessen the rush of water if he could move ahead quickly enough. But the river was relentless, and before he had gone a half mile his thighs were nearly submerged. Jake continued to row, but within a few minutes realized that his progress was slowing to a crawl.

  The glow of fires from Fort Montgomery on the west bank illuminated the river ahead like the flickering flames of a stove in an empty house. Fits of yellow light played out like water spirits across the Hudson, and dark, lumpy shadows sat before him, gargoyles guarding the cathedral of Freedom. Except that one of those shadows must be Busch, as determined to reach the chain as Jake was to stop him.

  His boat was no longer of much use, but Jake feared he would have a difficult time swimming against the river, roiling with the growing storm. There seemed no other option, however, for his short pause had allowed the water to lap over the gunwales. He made sure the ruby-hilted assassin's blade was secure in his belt, removed his sodden boots and socks, and tossed off his vest. Throwing one of the oars ahead of him to help as ballast, he dove into the icy cold water.

  The Hudson's current is a varied thing, depending not only on the time of day but the location and perhaps Nature's momentary whimsy. Jake found it suddenly veering in his direction, but that was little consolation. As he looked up from the water, he expected at every second to see a brilliant flash of red: Busch's canoe igniting with the Tory's terrible wrath.

  Jake had not lost hope that Rose had notified Putnam, and at every second prayed patriot patrol boats had been strung like a necklace in front of the chain. For a brief moment he was sure the shadow he was nearing was one. But as he reached for it, the hulk darted back against the shoreline, and he realized it was a trick of the reflected light. The rain was dampening the poor illumination and blurring his eyes, and now the river's strange sounds began crowding into his head, thrusting him into a Hadeslike maze.

  Jake kicked with all his strength, but his energy was nearly gone; he feared he would lose this battle. He let go of the oar, deciding that it was slowing his progress. Stroking ahead, he determined to make one last lunge for the dark line that protected his young country's fate, or drown in the attempt.

  A moment later, he noticed a thick shadow ten feet away that seemed different than the others; while it too moved away and changed shape, it did so slowly. With another stroke, he realized it was a real, solid object, with another ahead, and now he could pick voices out from the chaos — Busch giving orders, the two boats knocking harshly against each other.

  And then he heard the hard creaking of the iron chain against its log supports ahead.

  The slap of the bomb canoe against the hull of his own craft sent Busch's heart to his stomach. While he knew that theoretically the charge could only be activated by the fuse, he did not want to test that theory here. He pushed the vessel off with his hands and found himself straddling the water, his legs still in the lead canoe.

  For a brief moment he felt a twinge of panic, fear shaking his grip. Then he caught hold, and used his arms to bring the bomb canoe close again. As his assistant s
teadied their craft, the captain climbed aboard and took up the paddle he needed to propel himself the last league to the chain.

  The rain was now sufficient to have soaked entirely through to his skin. But he welcomed the growing storm as an ally, for the more difficult the river, the greater his chance of success.

  While the scene was dim and confusing to Jake's eyes, Captain Busch interpreted the fires on the bank below Fort Montgomery as being considerably brighter tonight than when he scouted the chain, even with the rain. Busch believed a good lookout would have spotted him by now, and undoubtedly alerted the patrols on the shore. Indeed, a whaleboat loaded with soldiers had been dispatched and was hurrying across from the western terminus.

  "There," he said, pointing to a dark froth still protected by the shadows of the cliffs. "That will be one of their patrols coming for us."

  "I'll hold them off, sir."

  "Just draw them away," said Busch. "I only need a minute to reach the chain. The bomb will explode within ten minutes, once the fuse is set."

  "Won't you have trouble with the fuse in the rain?"

  "It's all mechanical," Busch assured him. "Just hold these men off and our success is guaranteed. You can do it; you're worth ten of them."

  Busch didn't hear the response, if there was one. He was already paddling hard. While working the other canoe had been difficult, moving this one was practically impossible, with the immense dead weight of the bomb acting against him.

  It's a few yards, no more, Busch told himself. I must do it, and I shall.

  The British sailor let his canoe drift momentarily with the current, waiting for the whaleboat to approach. Had someone told him the day before that he would sacrifice himself against the rebel rabble, he would have laughed heartily — after punching him in the face. But this ranger captain had somehow filled him with pride, and shown him that the destruction of the chain was not merely his duty, but an enterprise that would rank with Drake's defeat of the Spanish in the Channel. How much greater would the fame be, when two men alone took on the rebels, and broke the Revolution's back in a single night?