The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  "You and I are not riding with the others. Our mission will be more perilous — are you prepared for it?"

  Jake nodded.

  "I have a few more items to attend to," said the captain. "We'll ride in a half hour, no more. Smith — "

  Jake's eyes were once again caught in the Tory captain's powerful gaze. What a shame it was this man was on the wrong side of the war.

  "Sir?"

  "You won't fail me."

  "No," managed the patriot, having more difficulty with this lie than many longer ones.

  Busch nodded, silently dismissing him.

  The same imagination that had created ambushes in the house was now double-timed into more constructive work. If Fortune had smiled on Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs by having Busch decide to take him along on the true mission back at the river, and maybe the chain — why else would he have asked if he could swim? — Jake still hoped to prevent the rest of the rangers from striking the unguarded town.

  Being the son of an apothecary, the patriot spy had grown up on a wide variety of cures and potions. He was particularly fond of sleeping bombs, as the Gibbs's family pets — and a number of British soldiers — could attest. But those were impractical here for any number of reasons, starting with the fact that the necessary ingredients were lacking.

  His studies had acquainted him with a variety of herbs and other natural medicines, however, and he began scouring the nearby woods for some ingredient that would incapacitate the troop. A few pieces of Fly Agaric mushrooms placed in their canteens would do the job very nicely — the plant produced an effect not unlike exceedingly strong rum. Though its results were variable, it could generally be counted on to intoxicate its victims for six or seven hours. It would also repel any horseflies in the vicinity.

  Jake walked behind the house and down a gentle hillside leading into the woods, looking for the mushrooms. One of the homestead's previous occupants had been a midwife, and plenty of medicinal plants tripped at his heels — some peppermint, a few spearmint, even a creeping strawberry plant — but no mushrooms. Undoubtedly, van Clynne would have explained this via some dissertation on the natural order of things and one of his Dutchman's Rules of the Cosmic Arrangement: whatever you want most at hand is always furthest away, until you don't want it any more.

  Jake passed the remains of an old foundation and felt his feet sinking in mud. The brush here became thicker, and as he surveyed the margins of the swamp he realized that the short, ground-covering shrubs that ran back up the hillside might serve his purpose as well as any mushroom. For the plants and their spiky green leaves appeared to be dog mercury, a potent herb common enough in Europe but only an occasional import to America. A few sniffs of their sour odor was enough to confirm his find; Jake took out his knife and stripped several handfuls of the leaves into his pockets.

  Dog mercury could induce severe gastric distress if ingested; it had the added advantage of waiting a good hour or so before erupting. Unfortunately, it had to be eaten fresh, as the poison was easily diluted — and its strong smell tended to warn people away from it.

  People yes, but not necessarily horses, so long as he could mix it with something that lessened the bitter taste.

  Like a few mint leaves and some sugar.

  "What are you doing, Smith?"

  "Just helping myself to a cone of the rebel's sugar," said Jake as innocently as possible when the sergeant caught him in the barn a few minutes later.

  "I got m'eye on you," said the man. He emphasized his point by spitting toward Jake's feet.

  Jake broke off a piece of the sugar cone and handed it to the man. His stubby cheek turned down with the force of his frown, but he accepted the peace offering nonetheless.

  "You served during the French and Indian War, I'd wager," suggested Jake.

  "Sayin' I'm old?"

  "No, sir. Not at all."

  "Hmmphh." The piece of sugar was nearly as big as the sergeant's fist, but he shoved the entire hunk into his mouth like a five-year-old would.

  Jake smiled and licked at his own piece. He needed privacy to finish mixing the herb with the sugar and mint, and then slip it into the horses' feed, but the sergeant didn't offer to leave. Lewis swished the sugar around in his mouth, as if he were chewing an overlarge piece of barley candy. Finally, he swallowed it with a gulp.

  "Want some more?" offered Jake.

  The sergeant frowned, then took the rest of his cone from him.

  Jake shrugged and reached back into the wagon for another. Lewis grabbed his coat to stop him. "That's enough, now. The captain has plans for this. Say, what do ya have in yer pockets, Smith?"

  "A few leaves for a tea," said Jake. "Want some?"

  "What's this then, sassafras?"

  "It's Indian pine," said Jake, inventing a new species on the spot. "It aids digestion. I have a problem with gas, and learned this cure from an old Algonquin woman. I take a bit every day."

  "I've the same problem," said the sergeant, taking a new attitude toward the trooper.

  Jake graciously offered to share some in a tea with the sergeant, if he would fetch the water while the leaves were prepared. In the time it took the man to round up a pail and find the well, Jake had mixed the batch and fed two-thirds of the horses, who were suspicious but glad enough of the sugar. He left his own horse alone, naturally, and was just debating whether to feed Busch's when he heard the door open.

  "Captain says yer to leave directly with him," declared the sergeant. "Take his horse to him."

  "I'll leave this for you then," said Jake, pointing to the small pile of leaves on the bench. "Drop them straight into the water."

  The sergeant picked a few up and made a face. "They smell like farts."

  "Have you studied the theory of humors and fluids, Sergeant Lewis?"

  "What humors?"

  "The general idea is that like will repel like." Jake's science was accurate enough, though it could not be applied here. "The smell is what makes them effective. To tell you the truth — if you really want relief, eat them raw."

  "Raw?"

  Jake nodded solemnly.

  Had the sergeant boiled the leaves they would have been rendered impotent. Uncooked, they would have the same effect on him as on the horses.

  Lewis made a face but picked up some of the leaves, chewing a moment and then swallowing with a hasty gulp.

  "Try some sugar with it," said Jake. "That's how I like it."

  Between the sergeant and the horses, the troop would be completely incapacitated within two hours.

  And the area would be uninhabitable for months.

  -Chapter Thirteen-

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne falls in with the wrong kind of fellow.

  As a general rule, Claus van Clynne would not have gone back to the Loaded with Mischief Inn for several weeks at least, long enough to let its proprietor forget his role in raising the price of salt. But as the tavern was the first to present itself and as van Clynne's thirst had reached powerful proportions, he consented to break his rule just this once. His reward was an outraged shout from the keeper, who directed his wife to swat the Dutchman on the back with her broom on his way off the premises.

  "Tut, tut, my good man," said van Clynne, fussing with the large gold buttons of his coat as he eyed the woman's raised weapon. "Surely you can't be upset with me for facilitating your deal."

  "Surely I can. You doubled the price."

  "You bought your salt at a third what I paid for mine," said van Clynne, nodding at the inn's only other customer as he walked to the table. Van Clynne was not actually lying, merely neglecting to divide his cost across all of his purchase. "You'll make a fine profit off it, I suspect. As I see by your clock that it is just about noon, I'd like a mug of stout, please."

  The keeper frowned heavily and considered the matter. It was one thing to hold a grudge; it was quite another to let that grudge prevent you from making a bit of profit. And so he directed his wife to disarm and went and fetched some beer
for van Clynne.

  "Do you mind if we set up an account?" queried the Dutchman when the tankard was set down.

  The vessel was whisked back so quickly its contents did not have an opportunity to spill.

  "Just a jest, my good man," said van Clynne, reaching for one of the purses he carried on a string suspended from his neck.

  "Legal money," said the keeper. "You will use coins or you will find yourself sitting on the roadway talking to yourself."

  "I had no intention of burdening you with paper," said van Clynne haughtily. "I have been looking for a way to get rid of this shilling for many months."

  He dropped the coin so that it rolled across the table and continued onto the floor, making straight for the door. As the keeper dove to intercept it, van Clynne looked over and nodded at the customer sitting in the large armchair near the unlit fireplace. He was dressed in a powder blue coat with a brocaded yellow vest and very properly arranged hair. He sipped a thimble's worth of Madeira from a tiny silver beaker, undoubtedly one that he had brought to the inn himself. A walking stick crowned by a golden eagle stood at the side of his chair.

  The reader has already made the man's acquaintance, for the stranger is the notorious Dr. Harland Keen, as he introduces himself — without the "notorious," of course.

  "And I, sir, am Squire Claus van Clynne, at your service I'm sure. It is always a pleasure to meet a man of the medical profession. There are not enough doctors in this world, that's my motto."

  "And what, sir, is your profession?"

  "I am a man of the world, a traveler and a philosopher, a person who sees needs and fills them — in short, I am a good man of business. I am currently engaged in an enterprise involving a little salt," added van Clynne in a confidential tones. "Salt which has been separated from me. Stolen, in fact."

  "Ha! It serves you right," said the keeper, who'd been eavesdropping on the conversation.

  "I am looking for a troop of bandits," continued van Clynne. "They were dressed in green coats and wore odd brown beanies, as if they'd caught some hideous cancer."

  "Interesting," replied Keen, feigning not to know the significance of the coats. "And these were Loyalists or Americans?"

  "Robbers, sir, no matter what flag they fly. These woods are filled with miscreants of every stripe. It is something about the air, I believe — the archbishop of Canterbury himself would think of lifting a man's purse if he rode here."

  "It's the times, not the geography," replied Keen. "I have often thought that things have gone very much downhill since the Dutch ruled this land."

  "Indeed, you're very right, sir. Most observant. You say you're a doctor?"

  "I have passed the necessary examination."

  "I could tell you were a man of great learning the moment I set eye on you. That is your coach outside, no doubt."

  Keen nodded.

  "Quite an interesting vehicle," said van Clynne, who naturally recognized it as having been made in England and had concluded that its owner was not only well - off but probably allied with the British. While this might shade van Clynne's attitude toward him, a man's allegiance was not necessarily a barrier to business in a time of crisis, especially as he showed proper deference to the squire's ancestry. "I have had occasion to deal with some similar carts in the past."

  "I'd hardly call it a cart," said Keen quite lightly.

  "True, I suppose you would call it a carriage, with the high wheels and all," allowed van Clynne. "Still, it is most impractical on these roads."

  "Impractical? I find it handy indeed."

  "It requires a driver, does it not? That's an added expense in these days of inflation."

  "My driver is most useful," said Keen.

  Van Clynne nodded, and turned to signal for another beer.

  "I don't suppose it's for sale then."

  "For sale? I think not. But perhaps we can do business on another front."

  The Dutchman took this under advisement while he watched the innkeeper pour out a refill. Keen took a sip from his silver cup so slight that a bird would have been considered a guzzler by comparison.

  "I am always ready to do business," said van Clynne when the keeper had gone. "Even with a British officer."

  "Why do you think I'm a British officer?"

  "Come, sir, let us be frank with each other. What rebel would dress as you, or display such wealth? And no Royalist could afford to be so bold."

  "And your allegiance?"

  "I am Dutch. My allegiance is my own."

  Now the reader will realize that both men were jousting, each aware the other was more than he presented but not necessarily sure what that more was. Keen had the advantage, not so much because Bacon had told him of the Dutchman's strengths, but because while van Clynne was signaling the innkeeper he had sprinkled some dust from his hand into the bottom of the Dutchman's cup.

  The active ingredient in the powder was largely distilled from jimsonweed, but a pharmaceutical analysis would fill several pages. More important to note was that its intended effect was as something of a truth serum; anyone who consumed a healthy dose found within a few minutes that they were amazingly agreeable and unable to dissemble. This condition lasted only a short time, for the belladonna at the formula's core tended to have a heavy impact on a person's consciousness, quickly delivering him into a state of extended drunkenness — or worse.

  Except in this case. The scientist in Keen was quite intrigued by the Dutchman's apparent resistance to the drug, for his companion not only continued speaking coherently — if at enormous length — but drained the entire tankard of beer without any noticeable effect.

  To keep the conversation going, Keen made up a story about wanting to buy wheat, but as he knew nothing about the prevailing prices made a suggestion so low that van Clynne quickly brushed the offer aside.

  "If you see your way clear to triple the amount per bushel, we might have some grounds for discussion," said van Clynne, sliding his mug away and rising from the table. "But in the meantime, I have other business to attend to. And if that is your hat… " — the Dutchman pointed to the folded beaver on the post near the door — "… you would do well to get a sturdier one. It's quite ruined by your bending."

  "Which way are you going?"

  "Generally, north, though as I am in search of my salt, I could not say specifically." Van Clynne's suspicions had been raised by the low offer for the wheat — ordinarily British purchasing agents bid far too high. So he wondered if this man might actually be an American disguised so as to lure people of loose business ethics into a trap. Not that such a description would ever apply to him.

  "Perhaps I can be of service," said Keen. "Would you like to ride with me?"

  "Thank you, but I think not. With all due respect, sir, your wagon is quite a magnet for rascals of all sorts. I am best off sticking to my horse."

  "A traveler who refuses hospitable company?"

  "Surely, sir, I do not mean to insult you," said van Clynne, stroking his beard absentmindedly. "I am as great a follower of the etiquette of travel as any man on this continent, I dare say. But as I am currently on business, and on a sharp error, errand ..."

  "Is something the matter?"

  "No, no, just a slight flutter in my eyes. It is nothing," said van Clynne.

  "Here, let me take a look."

  "I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, Dr. Quack!"

  Blame the intemperate behavior on the late-acting drugs and van Clynne's natural aversion to the English. He pulled his lapels and strode to the door, fixing his large beaver on his head as he reached the threshold. Dr. Keen followed, and was by his side as van Clynne reached up for his horse — and fell straight to the ground.

  -Chapter Fourteen-

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne is left to complain about the inefficiency of thieves.

  Major Dr. Keen had his driver load the incapacitated van Clynne into the coach and then climbed into the cabin behind him. The Dutchman's reaction to the drug wa
s atypical, to say the least; he seemed to have skipped not only the suggestive period but the hallucinatory phase as well, moving right on to sleeping — unless the British doctor was confusing his convulsions for loud snores.

  No, a convulsive would hardly have such a benign smile on his face. Keen directed Percival to proceed down the road and then fell to searching the Dutchman.

  His immediate attention was drawn to the ruby-hilted knife secreted in van Clynne's vest. The blade was an authentic sibling of the weapon in Keen's own possession; unless the Dutchman had succeeded in besting another agent, he must be a member of the dark brotherhood.

  Difficult to believe, though. Leaving his nationality aside, van Clynne did not cut the robust figure Major Dr. Keen took to be typical of the species. But perhaps that was his secret efficiency. Clearly he had some intelligence — he had quickly discerned that Keen was British, and knew enough to steer away from him behind enemy lines. It might even be that his reaction to the truth drug was the result of some far-reaching general antidote ingested prior to entering the inn.

  If so, the doctor was highly interested — so far as he knew, there was no known remedy, even for a fatal overdose.

  Van Clynne's coat and vest had a large number of interior pockets. All number of documents were deposited within them, mostly testimonials to his honesty and safe passages of conduct. It appeared he could go anywhere in the world he wanted and produce the necessary permission; here was a voucher from the King of Spain, here a recommendation from Guy Carleton, governor of Canada. The sheer number convinced Keen they must be forgeries, but all looked most convincing, and when the doctor compared a pass purported to have been signed by General Howe to an authentic one he owned himself, he could discern no difference in the hand.

  The Dutchman also carried representative samples of the currency of every major legitimate nation in Europe and at least half the illegitimate ones in the New World. Indented bills from Maryland, Connecticut warrants, a note from Massachusetts, and leaf-inscribed papers from New Jersey were among the most plentiful. They were numbered where required and appeared authentic, or at least good copies — the quaint “to counterfeit is death” warnings the notes boasted notwithstanding.