The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  "If you see the Dutchman, tell him that Major Dr. Keen is looking for him. He'll come to recognize the handiwork, I daresay."

  -Chapter Eleven-

  Wherein, Jake and van Clynne meet on the road and have a salty time.

  There was nothing like the prospect of a quick and reasonable profit to motivate Claus van Clynne, and as his contemplated salt sale would not only benefit the American Cause but establish the basis for many more transactions, the squire goaded his newly purchased ox with whip and song. The latter was a ditty of his own creation, roughly to the tune of an old Dutch love song, built around the refrain:

  Nothing moves a fighting man

  like a bellyful of salt,

  Except of course a kettle full

  of heavenly fermented malt.

  For obvious reasons the reader will be spared further description.

  The Dutchman saw but ignored the clouds starting to gather on the horizon; though still miles from the encampments, he would have his wares unloaded and sold well before rain arrived. At moments like this, his patriotism knew no bounds, and he had entirely forgotten his anger at being treated as a mere subaltern by Jake. A less troubled disposition could not be found for many miles.

  He was thus taken largely by surprise when the woods around him erupted with Indian war whoops.

  Van Clynne's travels prior to the war had made the Dutchman something of an expert on the various sounds emitted by northeastern natives; none of these fell into any recognizable category. His puzzlement was cured directly, when the figures emerging from the brush proved not to be Indians at all, but base imposters — Tory thieves.

  "Halt!" shouted the leader, whom we already know as Captain Busch.

  "What's the meaning of this?" demanded van Clynne. "And what is all this nonsensical shouting?"

  "I arrest you in the name of George the Third," declared Busch. "Smith, get down from your horse and truss him."

  Smith, of course, was our Jake Gibbs, who was dressed so oddly that van Clynne scarcely had a chance to recognize him as he swung from his saddle.

  But recognize him he did. Jake saw the look in his face, and realized the puff of breath the Dutchman took was preparatory to an exclamation. He therefore thought it expedient to wield his carbine—butt-end first—in a preemptive strike. He smashed van Clynne in the stomach, knocking the air out of him and sending him backwards into his cargo.

  "Don't curse King George, even under your breath, you damned rebel pig!" Jake shouted.

  Van Clynne gagged in confused response. Jake slapped him across the face with his open hand. It was an authentically fierce blow, and the Dutchman only barely held on to his wits.

  "Play along," hissed Jake as he reached an arm down to van Clynne. "You don't know me."

  "Sir!"

  "Out of the cart, weasel, before I strike you again. I'd show a dog more mercy."

  The Tories were an amused audience as van Clynne was unceremoniously kicked toward the dust. While some part of him realized he must play along with this charade, a greater part expressed indignation at having to take even an ersatz Tory's orders. And so when Jake commanded him again to get on his knees and profess his allegiance to the king, the Dutchman declined.

  "Claus van Clynne goes on his knees to no man. Who are you sir, and who are your band of bowl-capped pirates?"

  "We are loyal subjects of His Majesty," proclaimed Jake. "Rangers of service to Earl Graycolmb, who has given us warrant and funds to operate here as an adjunct to His Majesty's Marines."

  His fellow marauders choked with pride at Jake's pronouncement, little realizing that his intent was to give van Clynne enough information to have them all arrested. "Treat us with papers that profess your loyalty, or we will treat you to the gibbet."

  Any lingering skepticism about Jake's abilities were removed by this performance, and a few Tories were heard to remark that this new fellow was quite a comer.

  "I would sooner give my papers to a pole cat than to someone with such ill taste as to dress in a green coat."

  "Tie the rebel up," ordered Busch. "We'll take his cargo under tow. I know several farmers who would welcome it."

  Now van Clynne became even more upset, objecting that the Tories had no right to take his goods. His words were met by a rope held at arm's length by two rangers, who used it to tie him to a tree.

  "Take the sugar but leave me the salt," offered van Clynne. His magnanimous gesture was met by a titter of laughter. "You're making a dreadful mistake. I was on my way to New York City to deliver this salt to General Howe himself. I am a loyal follower of King George."

  "A gallows conversion if ever I heard one," said one of the Tories.

  Well, it wasn't actually a Tory. It was Jake.

  "I expected better of you, sir," said van Clynne indignantly. "I trusted that—"

  The end of the sentence was lost in the swallow of air that followed a fresh blow to the Dutchman's waist.

  "I remember this man from the inn," said Jake. "He was trying to make love to the judge's niece."

  "Not a crime, surely," said van Clynne weakly.

  "Yes, I remember him, too," said Busch. "Why did you not come out to us if you were on your way to New York?"

  "You what? Speak up." Jake patted his back; to the others it appeared as if he were helping van Clynne catch his breath, but he chose his spots and his timing to produce the opposite effect — Van Clynne's chokes became uncontrollable, his face now the shade of a beet after it has simmered in a Dutch oven for three hours.

  "Perhaps he meant there were too many rebels around," said Jake, looking up. "I had that impression myself. Here, sir, you sound as if you're drowning on dry land. Let me loosen your waistcoat." He reached into van Clynne's jacket and quickly rifled through the folded papers he knew the Dutchman kept there until he found one marked with a red seal.

  "A-hah! And what is this!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as if introducing the last piece of invented evidence before an Admiralty court.

  As Jake knew from experience, however, the letter proved to be a pass from General Howe himself, admitting van Clynne into New York City. It was, like every other paper in the Dutchman's pockets, forged, but neither Busch nor the others had any way of knowing that.

  "We'll have to let him go," said the captain, after examining the pass. "But we'll keep the salt and sugar. If he's truly a loyal citizen, he shouldn't mind donating it to the cause of king and country. General Howe won't miss it."

  Van Clynne stifled his protest with great difficulty.

  "I'd like his horse as well," said one of the Tories, who was riding a nag older than several of the surrounding hills. "It's a fine-looking animal."

  "We can't just take a man's horse," said Captain Busch.

  "Perhaps he'll donate it," suggested Jake, walking back to van Clynne. He was between the Dutchman and the rest of the party, and they could not see the wink he gave him.

  Whether van Clynne actually saw this signal or not, he wasn't about to give up his horse voluntarily. "That animal has been in my family for many years," he objected, wincing as he prepared for another blow from his erstwhile friend.

  "Meet me on the road just above Pine's Bridge tonight. Wait for me," whispered Jake under his breath, adding in a louder voice, "Perhaps a little close negotiation will help you arrive at a reasonable price."

  "Leave off, Smith," commanded Busch. "You've no right to hit him. He has a legal pass, however he's obtained it. He can keep his horse. We'll borrow his ox and wagon — Sergeant, prepare a receipt." Busch turned toward van Clynne, who was still gathering his breath. "It can be redeemed from the quartermaster corps in New York City when you arrive there. You have my signature upon it. Tell me, have you seen a tall man traveling by himself in a brown coat, with fine black boots and a fresh Quaker hat?"

  "Sir," said van Clynne weakly, "you describe half the inhabitants of the country."

  "Describe your horse to him, Smith," directed Busch.

  "Black, a
bit wobbly but a faithful animal, nonetheless. Five years old, if a day." A nearly imperceptible shake of his head gave van Clynne his answer.

  "I have seen neither," said the Dutchman. "Or I have seen them all — gentlemen, I assure you, the description could be applied to half the equine population of the colony, if not the continent."

  "Untie him and let us be gone," commanded Busch.

  "Yes, sir." Jake reached into his belt for his elk-handled knife and flashed it before the Dutchman's face before slicing his ropes. "Don't fail me," he whispered. "Have Old Put put the troops guarding the chain on alert."

  "I will do nothing of the sort!" yelled van Clynne, looking back to Busch. "I would sooner kiss my horse than lick your boots!"

  The whole company laughed and applauded as Jake gave the Dutchman one last kick and returned to his horse. Even Busch smiled as they rode off in train. Van Clynne was left to cough the dust out of his lungs and clear his eyes, which he did to the accompaniment of a loud chorus of Dutch oaths.

  The bruises Jake administered were real enough, and if van Clynne had suffered far worse during his career, still it grated him that these had been inflicted by a supposed friend and ally. Indeed, it seemed inconceivable that a true patriot could strike another — perhaps van Clynne had misjudged his companion's allegiance after all.

  As that would have involved a sizeable flaw on his part — indeed, it would be such a gross mistake in judgment that it was inconceivable any Dutchman could make it — van Clynne quickly dismissed it.

  He straightened his coat and reviewed his situation. Jake had given him two specific tasks — the meeting, which was not to take place until tonight, and alerting General Putman. He had said nothing in regard to the stolen salt, nor his prior assignment.

  Obviously, the job of journeying to Schuyler was now completely superseded, as there would be no way of reaching Albany and returning before evening.

  But on the other hand, his compatriot — commander, if he insisted — would certainly realize that the two assignments, no matter how important, would not take up much time for an able operative like van Clynne; one was not even to be undertaken until an undetermined hour late tonight. This could only mean that the Dutchman was to use his energies to accomplish other tasks vital to the Cause. Obviously, Jake had felt it self-evident and unnecessary to mention.

  No mission could be more vital than the retrieval of his salt, destined for the very general whom he was supposed to now contact. Not only was it critical to the survival of Putnam's men; there was no telling how it might inspire the Tories if left in their possession.

  But how to arrive at a plan which combined its liberation and union with Putnam, without exposing his comrade? Van Clynne sighed deeply and scratched his beard, as he always did in such crises. Then he followed the next logical step — he turned his horse back in search of an inn, where a few strong whiffs of stout would prepare his mind for the job ahead.

  -Chapter Twelve-

  Wherein, Jake concocts a plan to spoil the Tory raid on Salem.

  Jake undoubtedly would have had a different view on the direction van Clynne should take. Fortunately for the squire, he was not available for consultation. Indeed, Jake's thoughts were devoted exclusively to the Tories he was riding with, and their mission of harrying Salem.

  He had not told van Clynne to have Old Put send men there because he suspected it might be a diversion, though its precise role in any overall scheme was still unclear. Nonetheless, even a diversion could injure Americans, and as Jake rode he searched his mind for some way of sabotaging the operation without drawing too much attention to himself, or damaging his chances at discovering any plans to attack the chain.

  The rangers proceeded east in high spirits, for there is nothing like an early and easy victory to set the tone for a campaign. Busch could not have arranged a better mood-setter than the Dutchman, so easily bested; the men practically sang to each other as they rode.

  Jake noted that their path had been carefully scouted and selected; though nominally in patriot territory, they had yet to come across a patrol or even find a straggler foraging for food. The "liberated" ox and wagon slowed their progress, but their commander did not seem upset by the pace, and Jake realized as they pulled down the lane toward a single farmhouse in a hollow that they must be well ahead of whatever schedule Busch had set. Salem was now only a few miles away; even with the wagon, it would take less than an hour to reach.

  No one came from the small house when they pulled up outside. Busch nodded at the sergeant, who signaled to two nearby men and began a perfunctory search of the property.

  "We'll rest here a while," Busch told Jake. "This has gone easier than I'd hoped. You were brave back there, Smith; the Dutchman might have had a weapon."

  "Something about him told me I didn't have to worry."

  "Appearances can be deceiving."

  The American agent found it hard to disagree.

  "Come into the house with me." Busch's words had the sharp cut of a command issued under fire — a bit too strong, it seemed, for the circumstances. Jake immediately feared the captain had overheard his whispered remarks to van Clynne.

  Great is the power of imagination under the press of danger; left to its own devices it can manufacture a nation of demons and devils from a few chance words or the turn of a phrase. The only antidote is sheer willpower — though a loaded pocket pistol does not hurt, and Jake secreted his up his green-coated sleeve as he walked up the path of raked gravel behind Busch.

  If it was a trap, it was an exceedingly pleasant one. The stone-faced room had been freshly cleaned, with a fine layer of sand raked over the floorboards in a swirling pattern. A Franklin stove stood in the corner, all fired up. A pot of water sat on the iron top, just a degree or two short of a full boil. The only difficulty Jake faced was the room's low ceiling—he had to stand with a slight bend to keep from knocking his helmeted head on the exposed joists.

  "Our farmer friend arranged to be away this morning, in case some rebel should find us," explained Busch. "But he saw to our needs just the same. There's feed for the horses in the barn; the troop will rest here an hour or two before proceeding."

  Jake nodded, still unsure whether he was being tested.

  "When I found you at the inn, you thought you were completely without friends in this country, didn't you?"

  "It seemed the entire territory turned against the king."

  "Hardly." Busch inspected the pot and then stoked the fire inside the stove. "No more than a quarter of these people have ever been firm rebels. I would say a half of the continent's inhabitants would go either way. That is our great problem — the neutrals."

  "Yes, sir."

  Busch smiled at him. "There's no need to be so formal when we're alone. I told you, I regard you as my brother."

  "That's kind, sir."

  Busch laughed. "You're always on your guard, Smith."

  "I haven't always been," said Jake. He walked around the room as if looking for a place where he could fit his head without stooping, and tucked the pocket pistol discreetly into the side of his belt when the Tory wasn't looking.

  "You're a man of learning, I can tell," offered Busch. "You're not really a farmer."

  "I am a farmer in that I owned a farm. But my family sent me to England to school. I attended Oxford."

  This was actually true, as was Jake's subsequent admission that he had spent much of his time at school not at school. His education was not so wasted as he implied — indeed, he'd been among the top students — but his bashful admission brought a smile to Busch's lips.

  "I dreamed of going to Oxford," said the Tory captain. "I dreamed of going to England. But only to visit," he added quickly. "My home is here and I'll fight to the death to protect it. As will you."

  Jake nodded.

  "I can see certain things in men," said Busch. "Tell me, can you swim?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." Busch took a canister from a nearby shelf and be
gan fussing with some cups. There was not much tea.

  "Are we taking time off for a swimming competition?"

  "Not necessarily."

  Jake suppressed an urge to grab the Tory and shake the details out of him.

  "You must forgive me, Smith; it is a strong practice of mine to be careful with information; there are spies everywhere. You've impressed me, though — I'm sure you will be an officer yourself before long, once our commanders find out your background and you have a chance to show your mettle."

  "I'm flattered."

  "You're obviously capable, and of good birth."

  "My mother was indentured."

  Busch shrugged off the vague retort — it happened also to be true, as is documented elsewhere — and concentrated on preparing the drinks. When the tea was brewed, he handed his subordinate a cup. This unstated ceremony was an eloquent way of forming a bond with a man, Jake realized, a gesture intended to build confidence.

  "I have long needed someone with me whom I can trust," said Busch as he sipped his tea. "Someone who can think on his feet. Drink up, man. It's not as hot as it looks."

  Jake had not let a single sip of tea pass his lips since he'd landed in Boston more than two years before, and he did not intend to do so now. Ever since the Tea Party, the drink had become the symbol of all he hated.

  In truth, few Americans, even firm patriots, would go to the lengths he did, especially in these circumstances. But a principle is a principle — a cough welled in his throat just as he brought the cup to his lips, and his lungs exploded in a burst that sent the liquid sailing across the floor. The choking fit was so strong his helmet fell off into his tea cup, sending the contents as well as the porcelain onto the sandy floorboards.

  "Went down — went the wrong way," Jake gasped. An epileptic could not have had a more convincing fit. He nodded weakly when Busch suggested he should get some air.

  Jake was just opening the door when he felt Busch's light but firm touch stop him. It was the same grasp he had felt on the porch at Prisco's, and while he was not afraid of the Tory, still a shiver ran through Jake's body as he turned to face him.