The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  "I sent a man with them from the ship in New York, after Howe released them. He was merely an intelligence agent, but he was a very good one. I had him pose as a member of the Sons of Liberty." Bacon lifted a small, mangled piece of lead from the top of his desk and stared at it. The metal had once been a bullet; it had been removed from his leg by Keen several years before in London. "The man's body was discovered today in the ruins of the rebel powder house that blew up last evening. If this van Clynne was a rebel, then he alerted the rabble and had the man killed."

  "But if he is truly a member of the Secret Department, you would expect him to have killed the man, and blown up the powder stores in the process. It would be his duty if the fellow stood in his way."

  "There is something in my soul that weighs the first possibility as much greater than the second," said Bacon. "Or I would not have called you. I have learned to trust my suspicions, and act on them."

  "A difficult problem, indeed." Keen's hand reached involuntarily for the flask of wine on the table next to him. He caught himself but took up the bottle anyway, ignoring Bacon's ironic smile — the general would be congratulating himself on knowing the limits of his underling's willpower. "Where was this Dutchman going?"

  "He said back to Burgoyne, though of course that might be merely a cover story. He couldn't divulge his mission, even to me."

  "Assuming he's authentic."

  Bacon shifted in his chair, then looked back out the window of his study into the blackness of the night. Unlike Keen, he longed to return to England; he longed to be truly recognized and acknowledged. But he had even less chance than the doctor of seeing his native shores again.

  "I want you to locate him and settle this for me," Bacon said without changing his gaze. "Find his assistant as well, Gibbs."

  "And if they are rebels?"

  "I would think they have much information that would be useful. Your methods of extraction would be called for."

  "Naturally."

  "After that, Gibbs should be killed outright, as long as it can be done in a painful manner. But this Dutchman — to impersonate a member of the Secret Department is not something that can be punished by simple death."

  "There is a venom of a snake found at the tip of South America I have long wished to experiment with," said Dr. Keen. "It can be used to paralyze portions of the body quite selectively. I know of no antidote."

  "Your first target should be the man's tongue. He talks enough for a shire's worth of parsons."

  "Perhaps we should experiment on him, regardless of his allegiance."

  Bacon's expression did not change. "I would not want a member of our department harmed. But if he met with an unavoidable accident, well, even that would be understandable, depending on the circumstance."

  Keen nodded.

  "If they are what they say, I would not like anything to happen to our Dr. Gibbs. I would consider recruiting him myself — he has a sharp mind."

  Bacon gave Keen a brief but precise description of both men, their weapons, and their clothes, then turned back to his desk. He reached into a bottom desk drawer, where he retrieved a small wooden case. Using a key that hung from around his neck, he opened the box and removed a thin, ruby-hilted knife, his fingers caressing the gem gently before laying it on the desk.

  "You are to leave immediately," said the general.

  "I would be comfortable doing nothing less."

  -Chapter Five-

  Wherein, Jake proves his loyalty to the wrong cause.

  From the instant on the porch when Busch pocketed his pipe, there was little doubt in Jake's mind that he would forgo his chance at a full night's sleep and keep his appointment with the Tory. While Busch's questions regarding the chain may not have been related to any specific plot against it, the importance of the waterborne defense meant no chance could be taken. Besides, an opportunity at smashing a traitors' nest was not presented on such an attractive platter every day. Jake recognized in the man's smooth manner a particular ability that could do the Americans great harm if not quickly checked.

  He realized, however, there was a chance this small detour could delay his moving on to Albany and General Schuyler, who was awaiting word on Howe's intentions. Not to mention the fact that there is always a possibility in secret operations for misfortune, and even if Jake were to consider this night's mission but the light amusement of a few sleepless hours, precautions must be taken.

  And so he pressed upon van Clynne the importance of his continuing on to Albany in the morning, with or without him.

  "On what grounds am I being abandoned? Have I not done good service?" demanded the Dutchman, standing in the middle of the upstairs bedroom where Jake and he had been led. "Who helped you escape New York City?"

  "As I recall, it was the Sons of Liberty. You spent the passage sleeping."

  "I had been knocked unconscious, sir, having taken a blow in the line of duty. My head, as it were, was put to an important use by the Cause, diverting a villain's attention. Undoubtedly my intervention saved you, and this is the thanks I get — to be cast aside like an unwanted scrap."

  Van Clynne had taken off his breeches and hose, and stood before Jake in his shirt and a pair of brilliant red drawers. These last were a rather remarkable item, as they included not merely a portion to cover the legs, but extended to the chest as well; a hibernating bear was not so warmly covered. But we will leave the fashion discussion to others more versed in the science.

  "I'm not abandoning you, Claus. Someone has to go on and deliver the message to Schuyler that we have accomplished our mission."

  "While you stay here and take all the glory. Surely, sir, I deserve better treatment. My competence is beyond question."

  "Who questioned it?" Jake turned to the small stand where he had set the candle, and blew it out. It was not quite midnight, and he intended a brief nap for refreshment. "When you leave in the morning, take the Post Road north. Don't delay. I should catch up with you by Fishkill, or perhaps Rhinebeck."

  "We're an inseparable team," protested van Clynne. "I thought you intended on seeing your good friend General Putnam on the way."

  "I'll see the general soon enough," said Jake, lying back on the bed. Except for his boots and outer coat, he was fully dressed, and had his loaded pistol in his right hand — he hated to be surprised while sleeping.

  "I was hoping you would introduce us."

  "So you can arrange a sale of supplies?"

  "And what would be wrong with that?" asked the Dutchman indignantly. "The Cause is suffering — the condition of the soldiers in this neighborhood is shameful. Surely we must all do our part. Those of us blessed with special gifts for the acquisition of needed supplies would be doing a tremendous disservice to —"

  "Quiet now, I want to catch a few winks of sleep. And try not to snore tonight, will you?"

  "I don't snore, sir," blustered van Clynne, removing his shirt. "I am a Dutchman and a fervent patriot."

  "Who never let profit come between him and his country."

  "Just so, sir, just so, though you meant the words in jest. Enterprise is critical to the survival of our freedom."

  "I'll catch you on the Post Road," said Jake, "and if I miss you I'll just ask after the best beer in the country."

  "You will easily be led astray. And then our arrangement will be forgotten," said van Clynne.

  For perhaps the only time since they had met — many days' worth of severe difficulties and harrowing dangers, to be sure — Jake detected true fear in the Dutchman's voice. Besides his patriotism, van Clynne's strenuous efforts on behalf of the American Cause were motivated by the hope that they might win him the return of his family estate, which had been stolen years before by an English usurper.

  "Don't worry about your property, Claus. I'll make a full report to General Washington on your behalf."

  "The matter is urgent," said van Clynne. "Especially as I intend on marrying."

  "Congratulations," said Jake, closing his ey
es firmly. "Now get into bed and be quiet."

  "There is no need, sir, to play the enthusiastic reveler," said van Clynne. "I know you are only trying to find my good side. Besides, we have made no formal announcement of our intentions. Your congratulations are premature."

  "You haven't told Jane yet, in other words."

  "Marriage is a delicate thing to a Dutchman. It proceeds by stages. In any event, it is not the matter presently under discussion. Breaking our partnership at this point would be ill-advised; my services in routing these Tory criminals would be quite invaluable."

  "True," said Jake, changing his tactics if not his posture. He sorely wanted some sleep. "But who would believe a Dutchman, let alone a squire such as yourself, to be a Tory?"

  Van Clynne could find no argument there, nor would Jake let him, as he continued.

  "My success depends entirely on them thinking I am a traitor. Now that is a game I have often played, but yourself—who would believe it?"

  "I convinced Sir William Howe. And your General Bacon."

  Jake made a dismissive spitting noise at the mention of the first general's name, but at the second his reaction was quite different. They had indeed fooled him, but by the thinnest hair on an aging cat's paw.

  "Regardless, I am the officer in charge here. As I have said before—"

  "An expedition has but one commander. I would like to review the election where you were selected," grumbled the Dutchman, picking up the bedcovers in tacit surrender. "The ballot was definitely loaded. This is bad precedent for running a country, believe me, sir. There is need for more Dutchmen among your congress; then we would see what a revolution ought to be."

  Despite his continued complaints or perhaps because of them, van Clynne soon fell fast asleep. Within a half hour his snores could have been confused with the sound of a grist mill taking on rough wheat.

  Jake gathered his rest fitfully. A quirk of nature allowed him to go for several days on barely a few winks, and he rose well before the appointed hour, cleaning and inspecting his single officer's pistol and his four-barreled Segallas pocket pistol to make sure both were at the ready. The latter weapon was a rarity in America, with four barrels placed in pairs before two separate locks; once charged, the top set could be fired and then the barrel works flipped so the second pair could be used. It was an ingenious arrangement, and if its small bullets were useful only for close work, the miniature pistol was nonetheless a prized possession.

  Besides the guns, Jake carried a long, elk-handled knife that had been given to him by a special friend, a French half-breed trapper who had helped him escape from Canada a week before. His greatest weapons, however, were his resourcefulness and gilded tongue, both of which he expected to put to the test before the sun broke over the hills.

  When the large clock in the great room downstairs struck 2 a.m., Jake put his jacket over his waistcoat and snuck from his room, creeping down the stairs. The rest of the house was slumbering peacefully; the only noise came from the echoes of the Dutchman's loud snores against the rafters.

  The rendezvous was quickly met; Jake was but three steps from the door when he heard a hissing from the side of the house. Busch stepped forward, and together they gathered their horses and rode off up the road.

  They had gone but a short way, completely in silence, when Jake heard the low nicker of a horse in the woods nearby. He was just turning to Busch when two mounted men appeared from the shadows, guns drawn, and demanded to know their allegiance.

  "Why?" demanded Busch.

  "Because we asked, simpleton. You — what side are you on?"

  "What's it to you?" answered Jake, his voice harsher than Busch's.

  The patriot spy assumed that the ambush had been staged to test his loyalty, and so determined to play his role more freely than he might have otherwise. When one of the men — who fairly reeked of rum but was otherwise difficult to discern in the darkness — held out a pistol in his face and demanded again which side he was on, Jake drew himself straight in the saddle and declared for King George.

  The response was the soft but definite sound of a pistol being cocked.

  "Say your prayers, Tory."

  "Which prayers would you like to hear?" Jake asked his tormentor, who edged his horse so close to Jake's that their necks touched. His companion remained silent, sitting on his horse opposite Busch, near the side of the darkened road.

  Even as Jake asked his question, he realized he had mistaken the situation. This was not a stage play — the men holding weapons on them were aligned with the American side, though the hour and the rum indicated they were not regulars.

  "You are interested in our money, not our politics," said Busch evenly. "Don't add murder to your crimes."

  "It's not a crime to kill a Tory," said the man holding the gun at Jake's head. He nonetheless interpreted Busch's words to mean that they would comply, and his tone lightened ever so slightly. "Hand over what you've got, slowly. And we'll see if your lives are worth saving."

  The man started to lower his pistol so he could accept the travelers' gold. Jake's officer's gun was in the front holster of his saddle, near the horseman; it was impossible to get it without being seen — and shot. But at the first sign of trouble he had slipped his right hand into his shirt, and managed to conceal his pocket pistol in his fingers, away from the man covering him.

  He was unlikely to have as large an advantage as this again. While Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs did not like harming anyone connected to the American Cause, these two men had already declared themselves criminals, and the patriots would be well rid of them.

  He dove down across his horse, flinging his left boot upwards into the flank of the thief s animal with such a sharp kick that the horse leaped sideways, stumbling backwards and losing its balance. The man's gun went off as he fell to the ground; by that time, Jake had fired two of the Segallas' small but deadly bullets into the bulky shadow before Busch. He aimed for what he took to be the man's shoulder, hoping to wound but not kill him. The man fell back in a tumble, his own pistol firing errantly.

  Busch drew his gun from a front holster but Jake pounded his stallion's side and got the animal in motion, reaching over and pushing Busch's along with him. The Tory's aim was disrupted and he missed the thief, who by now was rolling on the ground in pain but not mortal danger.

  The threat diffused, Busch and Jake thundered down the road. It was soon clear they had not been followed, but they galloped another half mile just to be sure.

  Busch's two-cornered hat had slipped from his head but landed in his hand during the brief battle; when they stopped, he examined it carefully before turning his attention to Jake.

  "Are you all right, Smith?"

  "Yes, I'm fine."

  "You saved us both, I daresay." Busch's voice was grateful, and yet not panicked; he could have been talking about having preserved a few quarts of milk from spoiling. "The villain's bullet grazed my jacket." He showed Jake the damage, a light singe in the otherwise strong cotton that crossed directly beneath the left shoulder, perhaps four or five inches removed from his heart. "I thought they'd gotten my hat as well. I would have preferred that; I'd much like an excuse to buy a new one."

  "You're lucky to be alive."

  "I can't recall a closer scrape," admitted Busch. "Did you fire two shots from a pocket pistol?"

  "It is a gun I bought in London some time ago," said Jake, holding it up so Busch could see. There was a new moon and the tree-covered road was particularly dark. "Made by Segallas. I do not believe there is another on our whole continent."

  "It is an admirable weapon," said Busch.

  "Who were our friends?"

  "The rebel criminals call themselves Skinners, though they are after more than mere animal skins, that you may believe."

  "Are they soldiers?"

  "The law does not draw a distinction between rebels and plain criminals," said Busch, patting his horse's side gently before spurring it onward. "But no, not in th
e sense you or the rebel congress mean. These men use the war as an excuse for their depravity — as, unfortunately, do some who fancy themselves Royalists. Come, we have much to do tonight."

  Busch's pace precluded further talk. Jake realized that he could not have staged a better incident to gain the Tory's trust. He also saw that his initial assessment of Busch had, if anything, underestimated him. A lesser man might have well been flustered by his brush with death, nor would it have taken too much ego to insist on returning to finish the thieves off. But Busch had both overcome the shock of the close call and realized the men held little real threat to his ultimate mission, whatever that might be.

  He was also man enough to admit the truth of the roving bandit gangs and their allegiances, which many a hot patriot would not.

  Three miles north, the Tory pulled up his horse's reins. They had arrived at a crossroads undistinguished from hundreds of others in the surrounding countryside. Jake had only a vague idea of where they were ― a mile or so from North Castle and not far from the Kisco River.

  "We'll rest here a bit," said Busch.

  "So what are we all about, then?" Jake asked.

  "Come now, surely you've guessed after our encounter."

  "I'm not in the habit of making guesses."

  "Well, Mr. Smith, what are you in the habit of?"

  "I have only good and sober habits," said Jake. "I am God fearing and looking for work, if the truth be told. I have no money."

  "I wouldn't worry about that," said Busch. He pulled his horse around to look down the road. The stars shone as brightly as they could, but the neighboring vicinity was still dark and shadowy. "I know from your actions as well as your comments that you are loyal to the king, and a brave man besides."

  "As are you," said Jake.

  "Indeed, I am a bit more," said Busch, his voice instantly acquiring an elevated tone. "I am Captain John Busch, of his lordship Earl Graycolmb's own Loyal Rangers, working with His Majesty's Marines to defeat the rebels in the Highlands. I am recruiting men, such as yourself, to vindicate His Majesty's name."