by Jim DeFelice
Having completed some of his most successful business dealings in the dark of the night, van Clynne realized it would be difficult from the water to tell who was friend and who was foe. He therefore endeavored to convince the Dependence that her troops were those nearest the shore — a not unnatural assumption, since that was where she had originally left them. And so he answered the cannon shot with his own pistol, and called out, with his best British accent, that the Americans had overwhelmed the advance guard and were about to overtake them.
One hears many tongues and accents in the Americas; there is French and its many varieties, Dutch and German, various African languages, a multitude of Indian dialects. English itself comes in a cornucopia of styles and slants; it is not difficult to tell a Rhode Islander from a Virginian, nor would someone from Boston be confused with a Jamestown resident, once his mouth was open.
The Dutchman's shout from the shore had an accent all its own. Though it was based on what he imagined a British marine would sound like, in truth, he had not had so much experience with these fellows that he could easily mimic the voice. His own Dutch accent was strong besides; overall, the tone was quite peculiar, if not overly pleasing.
Fortunately, the mate aboard the Dependence who heard it took it for Welsh. More importantly, he interpreted van Clynne's words — "We are here, and the rabble is a hundred yards further inland." — as perfectly as if they were the king's own English. The Dependence immediately began firing its heavy weapons into the supposed rebels, breaking up the marine and Tory charge.
Another man might have thought this a pretty good night's work, and been content to lie low while the balls shot overhead. But the squire was just warming to the battle. Besides, his dislike of the water extended to everything upon it, and this galley and her monstrous gun were a tempting target.
Or would have been, had they anything to bombard her with. The impudent British, unaware that they were firing at their own men, proceeded right up to the shore, launching ball after ball. A youth with a slingshot could pick them off with his rocks.
Van Clynne grabbed one of his soldiers just as he leveled a musket in the galley's direction.
"I have a much better idea," said the Dutchman, glancing upward at the rocky edge of the nearby hillside. "Two of you men stay here and pretend you're part of the British landing party. When you hear our assault begin, run for cover — don't dally."
As van Clynne leads his men to a small but strategic path between the berry bushes up a short but not insignificant promontory south of St. Anthony's Nose, we will take a brief but critical detour of our own, joining Dr. Keen and his kidnapped guide, sweet Jane. They were at this precise moment hurrying in the doctor's coach to Marshad's cottage.
Keen, partly because of intermittent pain from his wounds, had been a perfect gentleman — assuming one makes the natural allowance for the fact that he held Jake's loaded Segallas next to Jane's throat. After permitting her to fetch a cloak, he escorted the girl from the inn to his coach, making a brief detour to borrow a horse from her uncle's stable.
The animal was tied to the rear of the carriage. Jane was then introduced to the coach's sleeping occupant. She reacted with an involuntary gulp — Rose's mother lived a short distance away from Jane's uncle, and the two girls had often played together before Rose was sent to the Stonemans' to learn the rudiments of caring for a house.
"This will be even easier than I hoped," Keen declared, taking Jane to the driver's bench and tying a long rope to her ankle. He suggested that, should she disobey any of his commands, he would kill not just her but her entire family. From that point on, the doctor sat back and let her drive to the cottage, brooding in silence while working out the details for her lover's ambush.
Keen did not know that there was a connection between this young woman and his enemy, else the course of our tale might be far different. Jane, however, had recognized the Segallas as belonging to her lover's assistant — one must forgive her for seeing the world through Claus van Clynne's eyes. She therefore had some confidence that she and Rose soon would be rescued. She was also comforted by the knowledge that the exceedingly sharp paring knife secreted beneath her boned corset would come in handy should her captor get fresh.
As they neared the heavily damaged cottage, the rain began to beat down fiercely. Jane pulled her dark woolen cloak up and hunched inside, as if it were a cave that could keep her dry. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed as impervious to the elements as a beaver.
Keen's coach was equipped with a pair of ingenious candle lanterns constructed with mirrors and metal in such a way that a goodly amount of light shone on their path. When the house was in sight, the doctor stopped the horses and unfastened one of the lanterns from its side post, using it to illuminate the ruins and the surrounding woods. When he was satisfied that there was no one else here, he set the lantern back down and reached into his coat. There he drew a long knife from a scabbard sewn beneath the arm.
Jane saw her life glow in the reflection cast on the blade as Keen moved it slowly toward her. She froze, the connection between her brain and muscles momentarily severed.
"Take the horse at the back of the coach and go to General Putnam," commanded Keen, slicing through the rope at her heel. He smiled, relishing the fear that had flooded into her face with the appearance of the blade. "Tell the general to send the Dutchman, Claus van Clynne, here immediately, or my captive will die."
"Claus van Clynne?"
"He must come alone — if there are any soldiers with him, she will be dispatched before they turn the corner there," he added, pointing ahead. "And then your family at the inn will die. And after that — yourself. Go. Now!"
Jane flew from the top of the carriage to the horse. Keen watched her leave with much satisfaction. He was not such a simpleton to think that Putnam wouldn't send a troop of soldiers, but the look on her face when he mentioned van Clynne convinced him she knew the Dutchman and would endeavor to send him here.
Keen would have ample surprises for them all.
The hill van Clynne and his men climbed stood over the sheltered bit of water where the Dependence had been maneuvering. The height was not great, but the elevation was more than enough to protect anyone who stood on the top from the awful 32-pound dragon at the mouth of the ship.
"What we need, gentlemen, are stones," declared the Dutchman as he huffed to the crown. "Not huge ones, mind, but ones you can throw readily. You see the ship; that is our target, and it is an easy one at that."
And so it was. The deckhands and gun crews on the British galley, who had already done well to cope with the rain, now found themselves inundated with much heavier material. It was as if God had opened up the sky and forced brimstone down upon them.
Well, not quite. The British quickly realized that the rocks were being thrown by mortals, and rebel mortals at that. But they found this new threat nearly impossible to counter. Only two swivels could be brought to bear, and the darkness made it difficult to see what they were shooting at. Had the Americans been firing muskets, the flashes would have given them away, but the rocks arrived suddenly, crashing on deck — or on a sailor's head — without showing where their authors stood.
The ship's captain was beside himself with anger at this new rebel ploy. He ordered the helmsman to bring the ship about, and yelled at his gun crews to send "the damned rebels back to hell where they belong."
The crew endeavored to comply. But the swirling riptides made it difficult to swing around quickly, and suddenly a loud crash signaled yet another problem — the keel had struck against a submerged sandbar, leaving the Dependence snagged in an even more difficult position than before. The rock throwers quickly realized the ship's plight, and responded with a hurrah — and a fresh round of projectiles.
As their confidence grew, van Clynne's troops steadily increased the caliber of their stones. Lieutenant Clark's curses reached a new fervor as he urged his men to row themselves off the rocks and retreat. The river roiled with f
resh and heavy stones, and for a moment it appeared the great British terror of the Hudson was about to meet her doom.
Surely that would have been the case had the troop of American soldiers — two full companies of men, under the personal direction of Major General Israel Putnam himself — been able to fight their way past the last marines and rangers in a few minutes' less time. Their shouts as they reached the shore added to the confusion, and Clark felt a sinking sensation in his stomach he had never experienced while wearing the king's coat of service in the navy. But a roar from his 32-pounder succeeded in rallying his spirits; even more importantly, it helped loosen the ship from its snare.
"All hands — get us the hell out of here!" yelled the lieutenant, not caring how ignoble his words would sound to posterity. "Get us the hell out of here!"
Chapter Forty-five
Wherein, the Apocalypse arrives.
Free of the bomb canoe, Jake took two immense strokes and found himself back at the floating iron barrier. He climbed atop, pausing to cough as much of the river water from his lungs as possible.
Though the thunder and lightning had faded, cannon fire on shore and from the Dependence took up the slack. Pandemonium echoed around him, the gunshots joined by shouts and cries from the wounded. No longer hampered by the rain, fires broke out with vengeance all along the river below. It seemed as if he had swum from the Hudson directly to the mouth of the river Lethe at Hades' gate.
The bomb canoe was floating downstream, carried by the current. Jake had no idea whether it was still close enough to damage the chain if it exploded; indeed, he had no idea how long it would be before the bomb went off. Both matters were out of his hands — his best course now was to run like hell for the shore.
Under any circumstance, running along the chain, with its floats moving back and forth with the waves, would have been a daunting if not impossible task. Given the churning of the river due to the storm and Jake's tired and bruised condition, however, it was not even conceivable. He took one step and fell flat on his face, dropping his arms barely in time to break his fall. Groping forward, he managed to reach the end of one float and climb to another. He made the next one before slipping again, this time hitting his chin on the heaving iron. River water filled his mouth and he began coughing so hard he fell over. Some action of the river or the storm punched a link up into his ribs so severely that he nearly rebounded into the air. He began flailing about, as if under attack from some monstrous creature of the deep. For a moment, blinded by the pounding of the water into his face, Jake thought he saw the chain rise up and tangle itself around him, as if it were a giant ray or eel, trying to strangle him.
The monster Despair, more powerful by far than any denizen of the river or sea, loomed at his back, its icy grip pinching the strained muscles in Jake's neck. With a start, the patriot realized he had slipped off the logs and was completely under water.
He opened his good eye and thought he saw two figures below him, worm-eaten corpses with their arms extended to him, hair flowing in the current and dresses billowing with the river's movement. He muscled every last ounce of strength into his arms and pushed for the surface, kicked his legs and struck his arm on one of the barrier's supports; despite the pain, he used it for leverage and lurched away.
And then in a second the storm vanished completely, the wind finally pushing the clouds so hard against the surrounding mountains that they were drained of their liquid in one last torrent, and had nothing left. The Hudson in that brief moment went calm as glass, and Jake made strong progress toward shore.
Free of the chain, free of the monsters of his imagination, the patriot saw the dark outline of St. Anthony's looming overhead. In that instant it turned from demon to protector, a natural barrier that helped the Americans form their line against the British tyrants. The river and her eddies helped now, with a current that pushed him toward land. Jake felt a sudden burst of speed, and as he stroked for the riverbank shook his head clear of the mucus that had accumulated during his struggle.
And then the Hudson was lit by a fireball unseen since the Earth's creation.
The water was rent in two. Huge waves welled up in a massive tide, pushed by a force several times that of the greatest Caribbean hurricane. The air itself turned hot from the friction of the blast, rushing against the shore like the hard blade of a carpenter's plane, taking with it whole trees and immense boulders, while burning the unprotected flesh from men's faces. Jake was propelled a hundred yards directly upstream, and then sucked back by the rebounding waves. He was tossed like a cloth sack against the chain, landing directly atop a float.
The patriot barrier shook with the force of the blow, rebounding up and down all across its length as the strong rope of a hammock under the weight of a child jumping on it. But like such a rope, the boundary held — whether because of superior design and manufacture, some trick of the river's reflection, or even Providence herself, the reader may take his pick. An engineer would realize the orientation of the chain was such that it actually rode much of the shock wave, which was largely wasted in the open air.
Even so, the iron and logs groaned so loudly that Jake's first thought was that he had failed. He lay on his back against the logs for a long moment, dark dread once again filling his head. But he soon realized the wood below him was intact, and creaking against its fellows; he sat up and began shouting insane hosannas as if he had been deposited directly into the balmy waters of the Mighty Jordan, en route to heaven.
Chapter Forty-six
Wherein, slight complications mar the otherwise well-deserved joy of the patriot forces.
Old Put pushed his stocky torso from the ground. Frowning, he retrieved his hat from the bush where it had been blown by the shock of the bomb canoe's blast just upriver. The cocked hat had been fatally bruised; one fold had been torn halfway through and the other permanently folded so that it hung down over his face. He tossed it aside and began shouting at his men to look alive, to take up their positions, to finish rounding up their prisoners and rout any other Tory or Briton who dared darken the surrounding woods with his presence.
General Putnam is among the most esteemed of American leaders, and certainly one of the oldest; while he appeared as something of a rooster strutting around the barnyard barking orders, still his commands were received with the alacrity one expects from soldiers responding out of respect for the man as well as the rank.
Except from the Connecticut men, who looked to their own general for direction.
"Begging your pardon, sir," said one of the privates, pointing to their adopted leader. "But General van Clynne has taken us under his command, and as he is of captain-general rank with a surfeit of clusters, we answer to him, sir."
"Captain-general? Clusters?" scowled Old Put. "When did Congress establish such a ridiculous rank?"
"It is a hereditary title from the Dutch, sir," said van Clynne quickly, "one which I seldom invoke except under the most dire circumstances, with which we were faced."
The Dutchman stepped forward and reached up to doff his hat. As it had been blown off his head, he came up empty-handed, but bowed nonetheless.
"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Putnam.
"Surely Miss McGuiness told you about me when she arrived," said van Clynne. "She is a stubborn young woman, sir, but you must make allowances for her; her heart is that of a true patriot." "What Miss McGuiness? What in damnation are you talking about? Speak clearly and quickly, or I’ll have you flogged." "Rose McGuiness. Didn't she alert you to the plot against the chain?" "What plot?"
The general could not have realized how grave a mistake the question was, for it invited the Dutchman to launch into a full narrative of the night's adventures. Despite Old Put's constant exhortations to get to the point, van Clynne embroidered a lengthy tale of destruction and woe — with himself, naturally, at the center of it.
The general, tiring of the discourse and suspicious of the Dutchman, would have had him slapped i
n irons, except for the mention of Jake Gibbs's name.
"Jake is involved in this?"
"After a fashion, sir, after a fashion. We are a team, as it were."
Putnam was spared further details by the timely arrival of Jane, who rode astride the bareback horse much as a young lad would have. She dismounted in a flash, her heavy woolen cloak swirling around to reveal her homespun skirts — all soaked as badly as any shirt of Job's. To Claus van Clynne, this was the most beautiful sight imaginable, the swish of a tulip petal loosened by the wind. "My sweet Jane!" "Claus!"
The two dear hearts came together with a crash that rivaled the recent explosion. General Putnam was about to take the opportunity to attend to more important matters, when Jane broke free of her lover's grasp and stopped him.
"General, please — I've ridden nearly the whole night to find you. A British spy has taken a young servant girl named Rose McGuiness hostage. She must be rescued — Claus, the man's name is Dr. Keen; he says you're to come to Marshad's cottage without any soldiers, or he'll kill Rose straight away. And then he'll start in on Uncle."
While van Clynne was confronting this new twist, his erstwhile partner was basking in the sweet calm that victory brings. Triumph makes all manner of injuries light nuisances, easily dismissed. The river was illuminated by fresh watch fires across the way; overhead, the stars fought through the fading clouds and glittered with all their might. Bear Mountain seemed to hunch his shoulders and proclaim his majesty, the Hudson lapping at his feet with a gentle snicker.
Jake might have been forgiven if, as he sat cross-legged, still half in the water, he thought this glorious show of Nature was all for his benefit. His exertions had left him near drunk with the afterglow of his body's fiery humors. The knife wound in his hip had stopped bleeding; his other wounds and bruises drifted away like memories of lost bets.
