The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  "We can't leave him there, sir," said one of the rangers.

  "We won't. I guarantee that he will be rescued, but only after our raid. They are not in immediate danger. As for the troop Johnson was supposed to meet, they will have to see to their own safety."

  "If the rebels take Caleb to Fishkill, sir, it will be difficult to free him," said Lewis.

  "We will hear of it, I daresay, from our sources, well in advance. In the meantime, we have more important problems to concentrate on. Johnson's loss means today's attack will be with less men. We will leave in an hour, no more."

  The men began to murmur that they had not yet been told of the destination. Busch smiled.

  "You see why I do not give out all of the details of our plans?" he asked rhetorically. "What if Caleb knew everything? We'd all be in danger. Not even Johnson knew all our plans, and he is a marine officer in His Majesty's service."

  Busch paused for just a moment longer, adding to the drama. No regimental commander, it seemed to Jake, had a better measure of himself or how he impacted on his men.

  "Salem. We're going to attack Salem near the Connecticut border. It will be a profitable engagement, I warrant.

  The pronouncement was met with general approval, Jake nodding with everyone else. But the target baffled the American spy — the small hamlet of Salem was many miles inland, on the opposite end of the county from the river. If they were undertaking a raid with the help of a British vessel, as seemed likely from Busch's reference to the Dependence, why were they going so far away? Why would a marine officer be involved? And what of the chain.

  But there was no leisure to contemplate these questions, or craft some manner of clandestine inquiry. The barn door burst open, and rather than the patrol of American militia Jake might have wished for, one of Busch's uniformed irregulars appeared.

  "Captain, I've found Major Johnson's horse," he declared, sweeping his hand in a bold gesture. A Tory behind him led the gray-dappled stallion Jake had left near the road into the barn. "He was hitched to a tree at the edge of the woods."

  -Chapter Eight-

  Wherein, a gift horse is looked in the mouth.

  While Jake was greatly pleased to finally have the mystery of Johnson cleared up — and to find that he had inadvertently harmed the British operation — his joy was nonetheless mitigated by the untimely discovery of his horse.

  The gathering of Tories did not know he had killed Johnson, of course. Nor did they yet realize that Jake had ridden the horse here. He therefore had the option of denying everything merely by remaining mute, and bluffing the rangers with some story about having had his mount shot out from under him on the way to the farm.

  But that path was fraught with eventual danger. For instance, he might have to explain why he had neglected to include the incident in detailing his other exploits that night. He would also be testing Busch's memory of the animal he'd been riding. So Jake plunged in a direction that offered immediate liabilities, but presented the prospect of safety once these were cleared.

  "What are you doing with my horse?" he exclaimed with mixed innocence and alarm, rushing toward the animal.

  "Your horse?" answered the soldier who had led the animal in. He turned to Busch. "Captain, I swear to you that this is the animal Major Johnson was riding last month when we met with him. I'd know him, sir, if I met him in a blinding snowstorm on the Boston Commons."

  Now the reader will realize that no stallion in the continent is so distinct as to be unlike any other; nevertheless, the dark gray markings on the lighter gray field of this animal were relatively unique. Not only Busch but Sergeant Lewis examined the horse; both men agreed with the soldier who had led him in.

  "How long have you had him?" demanded Busch.

  "I acquired the horse from a gentleman a day ago," said Jake. "The terms were favorable, though he requested that I be discreet. He did not give his name.”

  "Explain yourself."

  Jake described Johnson carefully, right down to the cravat haphazardly tucked into his shirt. They had fallen in together while traveling down from Wiccopee, and through certain signs Jake had been given to understand that the man was British or at least loyal to the king. Jake told him in confidence that he was "heading south"; the man claimed to be going in the same direction, but had to dally in the neighborhood a while longer. It would be most convenient, he hinted, if an arrangement could be made regarding their horses.

  "He said at first that his horse was tired from its exertions. When I examined the animal I saw that he was in fine shape. I got the better end of the deal by far, though I sensed the man was in some difficulty."

  "Sounds like a convenient story to me," said the Tory whom Jake had teased so effectively before.

  Jake turned to confront the man — and found a cocked pistol pointed at the small space between his eyes.

  He shrugged calmly. His survival depended entirely on seeming forthright. "You can believe me or not. Where would I come by such a magnificent animal? I am a poor farmer — or was, until the rebels chased me from my land."

  The party looked at Busch to decide the matter. And Busch looked at Jake.

  The two men exchanged a glance that measured the depth of their souls. Jake, having saved his life, already had won the Tory captain's trust once, and thus had a deep advantage. Still, this was a long and penetrating look, and a less practiced agent might well have crumbled beneath its burden.

  How long they stared at each other, Jake could not tell.

  Nor could he say what the other men might be doing in the barn around him. All he knew was that this Tory was a strong man with an iron will and a sense of himself that rivaled many a firm patriot's.

  "Smith's loyalty is unquestionable," said Busch, putting his hand to the ranger's pistol. "He saved my life when we were ambushed by Skinners. He didn't know then that I was a ranger; in fact, he couldn't be sure of me at all. He is a bit rash, perhaps, but his heart is sound and his body strong."

  As the captain told the story of the encounter, confirming and indeed enhancing Jake's tale, his men's attitude toward the newcomer clearly warmed. The hints of his stays in England, which showed that he was from a family of some means, were amplified with a few words from Jake, who noted — honestly, as it happened — that his uncle was in business there. Otherwise, the disguised patriot adopted the stance of a humble and reticent hero, the better to add luster to his shine.

  From the moment they met in Prisco's, Busch had taken a strong liking to the good-looking and intelligent stranger. But this should not be held as a serious character flaw; so had many American generals, including the commander-in-chief himself.

  "I expect big things from you, Smith," said Busch as he waved his audience to breakfast. "Don't let me down.”

  "I won't, sir." Jake's voice was so solemn that the king would have counted him among his closest supporters.

  As Jake had hoped, Busch theorized that Johnson realized he was being followed, and had therefore traded horses to avoid suspicion. The inevitable conclusion at his missing the meeting was that the Americans had subsequently captured the British officer, which could also explain the increase in patrols and the subsequent capture of Caleb. While the temptation to attack the prison was strong — the church was located only two or three miles away — Busch reasoned that the Americans might expect such an action. Neither Johnson nor Caleb knew enough of their plans to give them away, and Busch interpreted the fact that the rebels had not shown up at Stoneman's as a sign that they had not cooperated in the least.

  Like all good commanders, the Tory leader took these setbacks as an opportunity to push his men harder. They would carry on, he announced; their cause was just and victory within their grasp.

  Jake, meanwhile, played the role of good Loyalist. He exchanged his brown farmer's coat for a dark green ranger jacket, bowing his head as he took the cloth with nearly as much reverence as the king used for his coronation. Then he feasted with the others on the mountain of
nutmeg-flavored corncakes Stoneman provided for the rangers. Rose made a brief appearance with the farmer's wife, carrying the cakes; she took no notice of Jake and pretended not to hear the whispers of the Tories who surmised she was the girl he'd been seen outside with. That small incident added nearly as much luster to his reputation as his rescue of Busch, the men kidding him that perhaps Smith was not such a bad last name at all.

  Immediately after breakfast Busch had the sergeant issue weapons to the newcomers. Jake received a musketoon or carbine — the two words describe the same weapon — and a regulation musket, along with a fine sword and a good supply of cartridge ammunition.

  The carbine measured almost exactly forty-five inches from stock to barrel tip, far shorter than the musket, making it easier to handle on horseback. A peculiarity of this French-made weapon was its partially rifled barrel; these grooves, meant to improve accuracy, stopped about eight inches from the end of the gun. In theory, this combined the advantages of the musket —ready loading ― with the advantages of the rifle — better accuracy. The reality fell somewhat short, but there was more chance of hitting a target at fifty yards than with a pistol.

  The musket Jake was given was an older model Brown Bess with a shorter barrel than was now standard issue in the British army, the idea being either that it was easier to carry on horseback or provincials were second-class troops anyway and so could get by with obsolete weapons.

  Readers who have heard of the fearsomeness of cavalry attacks but never experienced them may be surprised to learn that even the carbine was not meant to be fired from horseback. Pistols and swords were the weapons of choice from the saddle, and a fully equipped dragoon — or Tory ranger, for that matter — would carry two pistols in a saddle holster or else his belt. But these were in short supply, and none were issued. Jake had to make do with the single officer's pistol he had arrived with; the gun was a bit lighter than the excellent models Busch owned, but it was finer than most of the other hand pistols displayed in the barn.

  The swords were long, well-sharpened, and balanced weapons that could slice the head off an opponent if the horse's momentum were used properly. They were not so ornate as was common among British officers, but they had come directly from a London armory.

  In truth, Jake wished the blades were rusted and the guns fouled. Considerable destructive power was arrayed beneath these wide rafters; if it were used to only half of its potential, the American toll would be great.

  The rangers mustered and mounted, with Captain Busch now dressed in his own dark green coat at their head. One of their number bears a light green flag as insignia, so drunken is their arrogance despite their location behind enemy lines.

  But nowhere is their insolent gall more obvious than in their hats. While most Loyalist units wear some similar shade of green coat, the men had been issued a distinct uniform cap meant to instill unit pride, as well as offer some protection. The helmets had started as leather coverings, with a small beak at the front; a smart, thick piece of bear fur was crisscrossed on the top, tied down with a thick rope of horse hair and pinned by a small brass button on either side. At the back, the hair and fur were knotted in a red bow, an emblem, or so Busch declared, of their patron, the Earl Graycolmb.

  Claus van Clynne, a connoisseur of headgear who had derided Jake's customary tricorner on several occasions, would have laughed at these beanies, but to a man the troop thought them rather smart. They pressed forward in single file formation toward the road, looking for all the world as if they were heading toward a King's Day parade. At the intersection with the road, Captain Busch swung his horse aside and signaled his two dozen mounted followers to fan out and listen to his speech.

  We do not wish to alarm the weak-willed into fleeing the countryside, and thus will not repeat his fiery charge here. Suffice to say it was well formed, praising their benefactor, the Earl Graycolmb, who had made this troop possible, and denouncing the ungrateful American rebels, who had made it necessary. The speech touched on rival Tory brigades, including the famous Rogers Rangers (the original leader's occasional remarks in favor of the Revolution went unreported). It ended with a stirring invocation of the king's name, which resulted in a strong cheer that sent a deep chill down Jake's spine.

  -Chapter Nine-

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne engages in activities of value to the war effort and, not coincidentally, to himself.

  The reader should not think that Squire van Clynne has been idle during this interlude; in fact, the good and portly Dutchman has been doing yeoman service in the name of the Cause, rising well before dawn with the vim and vigor of a man determined to serve his country, though if the full truth be told, he did not rise in a very good mood. Indeed, the Dutchman had even more vinegar about him than normal and was twice as irascible, grumping and growling through his morning toilet.

  Had we the time, we might linger over the description of this morning preparation, for the Dutchman is fastidious to a fault, customarily rubbing not merely his eyes but his cheeks and nose with the frosty water that stands fresh by the innkeeper's kitchen door. He combs his beard five times through every dawn with his whalebone comb, and even takes this instrument once gently through the hair atop his head. He then spends another minute or more maneuvering his large and revered hat over his crown, until it finds its most striking position. Last but not least, he runs his hands over his many pockets, belts, and buckles, making sure his weapons, money, and passes are at the ready.

  This morning these customary ministrations were accompanied by a litany of complaints directed at the injustice of his assignment, and the lengths he has gone to in the name of the Cause. It must be remembered that the Dutchman, whatever his other interests, is first and foremost a hearty patriot and a sworn enemy of all that is British, with the exception of their ale. His hatred has been bred into his genes, and in some respects, he regards the Revolution as personal vindication of his attitude.

  Thus, it is natural that his ego would suffer a great blow at being left behind while Jake proceeded on the adventure to rout the Tories; he feels that he has been treated, if not quite as a cowardly poltroon, at least as a hanger-on. Considering his role — or at least, his view of his role — in delivering the fake message to Howe, this new job is a considerable disappointment. To be given the task of riding unadventurously to Albany to meet with Schuyler — a Dutchman who prefers Madeira to beer and relied on a British model in constructing his home well, Samson had not been taken down so far when his locks were shorn.

  There are, naturally, more material concerns: the squire was counting on an introduction from Jake to General Putnam to smooth the way for future business dealings, which would be of benefit not merely to himself but to his country. Far beyond that, he realizes that his best hopes for regaining his family property rest almost entirely on Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs and his influence with His Excellency General George Washington. If Gibbs were to forget him — or worse, if he were to somehow become incapacitated — van Clynne would have to return to his past regime of endless legal battles and sob-filled entreaties.

  The Dutchman put aside his cares at his predicament to bid farewell to his beloved. He promised he would return; he told her she was the tulip of his garden; she was the yeast of his bread. Jane gave the only response possible in the circumstance — she happily continued to snore, as his shakes had not succeeded in waking her. The Dutchman left her sleeping with her aunt, bid the rest of the dark house goodbye, and started north on the road to Pine's Bridge. He had the two dead Tories' horses hitched behind his own gelding, intending to deliver them to the nearest American post, or to Schuyler himself, depending on which promised the most advantage.

  He also planned to do everything in his power to find Jake and smash the nest of vipers himself, without violating the letter of his commander's instructions to head for Albany. After all, the road network here was extremely tangled; it could take days to leave Westchester, if the proper route were found.

 
The lack of light did not impede his progress as much as the lack of food in his stomach; he had not gone a half mile when a gnawing sound presented itself, growing louder with each step his horse took. Within two miles, he started to look for an inn.

  The first to present itself featured a sign with a man with his wife on the back, yielding the inn's nom de drink, loaded with mischief. This was obviously a very new establishment, as van Clynne had not met it before. His curiosity aroused, he tied his horse to the front post and walked up the short run of red brick to the front door. A fresh coat of green paint had been applied to the thick, battle-scarred wood, confirming — in van Clynne's mind, at least — that the inn was new, though the house itself was a nondescript brick affair that could have been erected at any point during the past fifty years.

  "The wife will be down shortly," said the sleepy-eyed proprietor, greeting him in the foyer. Glad for the business, he hustled van Clynne to a seat in the small front room to the right. "We'll have some coffee for you directly. I'm sorry I can't offer you tea — it's too dear in these parts to afford, nearly as much as salt."

  The Dutchman fell to commiserating with the man, who although of German stock was not altogether unpleasant. He had seen no one answering Jake's description, and van Clynne thought it best not to ask too many questions; the man's accent was thick enough to indicate his arrival in America was recent, making his loyalties suspect.

  The coffee was strong, and van Clynne soon found it worked wonders for his disposition. But it was not until he overheard the innkeeper's conversation with two men at the door that the Dutchman's mood truly lifted.