by Jim DeFelice
But just as the animal clamped its jaws into Jake's side, a shot exploded next to his ear. The dog let go and Jake rolled backwards and onto his knees, catching his breath and steadying himself, his body still shaking from the fight.
Busch's bullet had gone straight through the animal's head. What had been a ball of fury moments before transformed instantly to a supine ball of fur lying peacefully on the ground.
Because of the ferocity of its attack, Jake would not have been surprised to find that the dog was a vicious hound bred from the wild beasts of deepest Africa. The reality was considerably different; it appeared to be one of the breed used in Scotland and Ireland to help herd sheep, an animal normally well known for its tame attitude toward humans. The warp of tyranny is not limited to human beings; all living things are twisted so strongly by it that they may turn against their own nature.
Jake's horse was writhing in agony on the ground a few yards away. He took the musket from the saddle holster and dispatched it quickly; it was the only way he could repay the animal's fine service. The stallion's murderer lay at its feet, already dead; Jake could not stop himself from smashing its skull with the butt-end of the gun in a burst of mad fury.
"Hurry," said Busch. "The farmer will be on the way with his guns. Take your weapons and jump on."
Jake threw his pistol in the saddle pouch and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed his carbine and sword and picked up the musket from the ground but then realized he couldn't carry everything and still hold on to Busch. Taking the bag and the carbine in one hand, he pulled himself up with the other, clinging to the captain's coat as they rode away.
Busch plunged down the hillside toward a stone wall. He followed that to a wooded path leading to the river. This he rode down a good distance before finally slowing, confident that the farmer was no longer following them.
"At least the bastard has lost his dogs," said Busch. "That's some consolation. Are you all right?"
"We're even now," said Jake. "You've saved my life, and I yours." In the rush of the moment, the American patriot spoke completely from the heart; he could not feel animosity toward the man, though it soon might be his duty to kill him.
"I told you," laughed Busch. "We're brothers beneath the skin."
"I hope the dogs weren't rabid." Jake winced as he felt around his torn earlobe. He was otherwise intact and not permanently harmed.
"The man looked after the animals like they were his children," said Busch. "The beasts were probably healthier than either of us."
"How do you know?"
"The man is my father," replied Busch.
Such a remark would seem to warrant an immediate explanation, but the Tory captain offered none as he guided the horse through the woods. It was clear to Jake that they had circled around the large mountain that guarded the eastern approach to the chain, so that they had landed behind it; they were now heading south toward the terminus.
The path became so narrow and the way so dark that the two men finally dismounted and left the horse tied to a tree. Using a torch was out of the question; the light would have drawn attention from the forts across the river and any Continental units nearby. Given the desolate hillside they were now approaching, even a half-sleeping sentry would realize anything brighter than a firefly was out of place.
"My sister and I walked this path many nights," said Busch, stopping suddenly. "We loved to sneak down to the river when the moon was out and take a midnight swim. My parents would have beaten us to an inch of our lives if they'd found out — that was part of the attraction, I suspect. Here we climb down the rocks. It's steep but it will save us considerable time. Can you handle this?"
"Yes."
"Leave your carbine. It'll only get in the way. There are no guards at the edge of the chain."
"Are you sure?"
"We were above here, see?" Busch pointed in the dark. "It was the first thing I looked for. Besides, a sentry would have a small fire. There's still a bit of light on the river, but the land is dark."
"Perhaps they're waiting for us."
"If they're that clever," said Busch, starting down, "they deserve to capture us. Come on now, be your brave self. You've passed the rough part."
Jake nodded. He was not going down unarmed — he quickly and carefully tucked his uncocked but loaded pistol in his belt at the front of his pants. The Segallas, meanwhile, was secured beneath his shirt; the elk knife lay in its sheath tucked into his boot.
As Busch had boasted earlier, there were no guards on the eastern terminus of the chain because the terrain was so nearly impassable. Certainly the only reason Jake was able to descend to the shoreline a few hundred yards upstream from it was the fact that he had a guide who had been slinking down this way since childhood. Even so, the last hundred feet to the river bank were nearly as frightening as the tumble on the ground under the dog's fangs. The rocks were wet and slimy, covered with spray as well as vegetation. Jake felt his foot give way, and only Busch's strong arms, grabbing Jake as he slid past, saved him.
"Don't fall," whispered Busch. "The rocks at the bottom are as sharp as ax heads."
It seemed beyond belief that children would come this way, but then in innocence everyone is brave.
"It's much easier if you have small hands and feet," said Busch, as if hearing Jake's thoughts. "You can poke them into the crevices. Takes longer, though."
The river was gently tickling the shoreline, eliciting a soft murmur from the rocks. Jake went slower and slower as his guide went faster and faster; the distance widened between them over the last twenty treacherous feet, and the disguised patriot reached bottom a full five minutes after his guide.
Bush was standing at the edge of the water. Just as Jake was about to apologize for taking so long, the captain waved his hand in front of his face and pointed out to the river. It was a moment or two before Jake could make out the shadow three-quarters of the way across.
It was a whaleboat, patrolling the water just north of the chain. The men inside were resting silently.
Busch and Jake stood like statues on the rocks for a minute that seemed like three hours. The night grew immeasurably colder in that time, dampness welling into the air. A fog began to form and the last hint of twilight disappeared. Jake's ears adjusted to the stillness so well he could hear the whispers of the soldiers in the boat, or thought he could; certainly he heard the order, "All right then, back to the fort." The oars slipped into the water and the shadow receded into the larger blackness.
"A last patrol as the sun finally sets," noted Busch. "Just before they light the watch fires, I suspect." He started picking his way along the bank. "That will be easy to time. Hold on to the tail of my coat. Be very careful."
The rocks were slippery, but twisted trees and other brush gave them handholds, and they soon were within a hundred yards of the chain. The logs holding it up creaked continually, moaning under the weight of the iron and complaining of the tide. The chain itself creaked like hinges on a door, except that the sound was multiplied many times; the effect was something like a team of waterwheels might make, if built entirely of iron and made to operate at an excruciatingly slow speed, each squeak and creak amplified by a succession of paper tubes.
The chain links had been finished and placed in the water the previous November. At first, the current proved so strong that they snapped and were pulled downstream. Finally, the engineer for the project, Lieutenant Thomas Machin, realized that with certain slight modifications, the chain would hold if placed on a diagonal from its western terminus, in effect running with the strongest current.
It happened that Jake had met Machin in Boston a few years before; the lieutenant had been among the "Indians" engaged in the famous tea party. Their acquaintanceship was extremely brief, and would not amount to much now — Machin was undoubtedly in a warm bed on the opposite shore, while Jake was starting to shiver with the cold on these rocks.
Busch stopped in front of him, and Jake realized he was stu
dying something on the ground, unrelated to the chain.
"Come on," he said finally, pulling off his coat. "We shall see if the links are of equal strength and look for obstructions. We'll go out on the river."
Before Jake could protest, Captain Busch took off his boots and dove into the river, aiming for the heavy chain and its log support bobbing a few leagues out in the water. He moved quickly, as if afraid to dwell along the shoreline.
Jake would have much preferred to stay there, but saw no way to do so without being branded a coward. It seemed foolhardy to swim out in the darkness and climb aboard a fitful line of wheezing rafts. Yet had he stopped and thought about it, he would have realized he'd done many less rational things in the name of Freedom — Jake quickly stripped to his breeches and shirt, leaving his guns in his boots. Armed only with the knife, which he tucked inside his belt, he got down on his hands and knees and half-stumbled, half-swam off the rocks toward the dark iron backbone of the Americans' river defense.
Three yards out and the water grabbed him with a sudden jolt, hurling him downstream at the obstruction.
"Keep your hands ahead of you," shouted Busch, who'd already reached the chain. "Use your hands on the logs."
Easily said, but as strong as Jake was, he had trouble with the tricky eddy in the frigid water, just managing to get his arms up in front of his body as he hit the raft support about mid-chest. With a loud groan, he pulled himself onto the logs, grateful to get at least part of his body out of the sharp and icy current.
"Imagine the riptides further out," said Busch, standing over him.
"Thanks, but I'll leave that to you."
"Those must be the fire rafts," Busch whispered, pointing across toward Fort Montgomery. The hulking log boats were framed in front of a series of sentry fires the night patrols had just lit to keep themselves warm by the chilly river.
"The fires make it difficult for them to see us," said Busch. "And besides, who would suspect that anyone had snuck out onto the river? We can rest here for a while. Look at how thick this chain is."
"It seems very strong," said Jake, sinking his hand down to feel around the iron. The metal pieces were just under two inches thick, folded into links. "How are we going to break them?"
"We'll manage," said Busch.
Jake thought of several possibilities — an explosive charge, a hammer and chisel, an immense file. Each had its difficulties — but none were impossible.
"At least the boom has not been constructed," said Busch. "Come, there was a float damaged further out a month ago; let's see if it has been repaired."
As Jake followed into the vast hollow between the banks, his thoughts turned to increasing the chain's protection. The farmer's land could be occupied, and some way found to place a guard on the shoreline where they had descended. Instead of sending a rowboat out on a precursory inspection, several small boats would have to be posted on twenty-four-hour guard. A vessel should be stationed in the middle of the river, with lookouts on each side — and sharpshooters, too, so another mission such as this one would prove fatal.
The log rafts were spaced and constructed unevenly, so that even if they had not been shuddering back and forth, moving on them would have been haphazard at best. Nonetheless, Jake soon developed a method of proceeding that was a cross between crawling and swimming, and if it were not for the cold waves — while it was June, this water had originated high in the Catskill mountains weeks if not months before — he might have been tempted to enjoy his foray. The sensation of being nearly naked on the river, without boat or paddle, was like none he had experienced. He began to wonder if mermaids' calls to sailors might not be made out of their innocent bliss, for truly to float atop the water unfettered must seem like an ecstasy one could only wish to share with all around.
Busch had stopped ahead on a raft that had been used as a workman's station. He sat cross-legged with the water lapping at his thighs, as if he were some new species of waterborne Indian chief.
"There's a float just to our right that is missing some logs," he said when Jake arrived. His voice seemed far away.
"Will we attack there?"
If Busch heard Jake's words, he did not acknowledge them. "My sister died at the spot where we entered the water," he answered instead. "That is why my father became a madman."
His voice had a distant quality that made it sound as if he were talking about something he had read, rather than lived.
"We came down here one night when my sister was thirteen. I was twelve. It was a brilliant harvest moon that night, and the water was warm. You would not know it from tonight, but the Hudson is often warm, most warm — you feel as if you are swimming in a bath.
"She slipped, and hit her head on the rocks. Her body came down all the way and fell into the river, but the current was not hard, and it washed up there, near where they have fastened the chain. If it were light we might even see the rock where I found her.
"I called for hours, hoping. When I found her body, I just… held her, hoping she would be alive, that it was a dream, a terrible dream."
-Chapter Eighteen-
Wherein, Jake and the captain return to shore, with poor consequences.
The two men sat without speaking, the sounds from the far shore drifting over with the wind. Jake heard the guards grumbling curses about the food and weak tea. Where was the rum, one man asked.
"My mother threw herself off the rocks six months later," said Busch quietly. "My father has been twisted ever since. It's a pitiful story, isn't it, Smith? A cursed man and a cursed family."
As strongly as he reminded himself that the man sitting near him was an enemy engaged on a mission aimed at the heart of his country, Jake could not help but feel a pang of pity and even regret. There must be some way of converting this tortured and yet worthy soul to the Cause of Freedom, screamed Jake's heart. His head answered firmly that no such chance could be taken. Soon, the circumstances would demand that Busch be killed, or if not killed, arrested, which would amount to the same thing — any patriot court would surely hang him.
He should be killed here, now; it would be a mercy.
"Come on," said Busch, moving toward him, "we must be getting back. Our mission here is complete."
The Tory captain touched Jake's shoulder, unaware of the argument raging inside him. Jake looked up and caught the reflection of friendship in his eyes, and that as much as anything decided him — if he did not act now, he might never do so. But as he was about to toss the Tory over the side of the raft, he realized he did not yet know when or how the attack would be launched, and just as the Tories had gone on without Johnson, they would undoubtedly go on without Busch.
Whether the argument would have held him back under other circumstances, it did so now; Jake silently followed Busch toward shore.
The night had grown even colder, and the patriot felt his teeth starting to chatter. A good bottle of rum would be most welcome now, or even some of his friend van Clynne's favorite ale.
The rafts rocked more violently the closer they got to shore. Now the dark shadows that loomed ahead assumed eerie shapes of children and women, long arms grabbing out toward them, hair floating in the murky water. Jake stumbled on the wet wood, and for a moment felt the cold grip of the night plunge its icy fingers inside his chest and grab at his heart.
He lost his balance and fell forward into the water, his head crashing against the stone like hardness of the barrier. He struggled, but in the darkness he slipped beneath the logs, and now found his way to the surface barred. In the dark water he saw the faces of the men he had watched die: his friend Captain Thomas, Lieutenant Colmbs, Horace Brown, and a host of nameless fellow patriots and countless British swam in the river, their souls seeking the shore. He already had swallowed two mouthfuls of water when he felt a sudden force take him and thrust him sideways, as if God himself had intervened to save him and preserve the Cause.
Not God, but Busch. The Tory hauled him to the surface and then paddl
ed on his back to the shore, dragging Jake behind like a helpless child.
"Thank you," the American spy managed after he had finally cleared the water from his lungs.
"Now you owe me a life," said Busch cheerfully. "Come, we've made a bit more noise than we ought to have."
They walked back along the shoreline to their clothes and boots without waiting for their breeches to dry. The path they had taken down was too treacherous to climb up in the dark; Busch took his pistols and prodded Jake to follow him as he walked northward.
The action of the tides here had produced a small ledge of sand along the waterside, punctuated by large boulders and debris. The way was not easy, and Jake worried that it would take so long he would miss his rendezvous with van Clynne. He wondered also if Putnam had increased the defenses, though he realized that the diversions and the geography would conspire to leave any simple multiplication of forces impotent against the Tory designs. Indeed, if the attack were launched from this direction, an entire army could be waiting south of the chain, with about as much value as a barnful of milkless cows.
"This will bring us out near the road, and we will have to sneak back through my father's orchard to get to the horse," Busch said when they finally left the shoreline. "It is in full view of the house, but he will be sleeping by now. In any event, he is much less fearsome without his dogs. Perhaps I should have killed them years ago."
Jake had hardly taken two steps before he sank in mud well over his ankle. If Busch was following a path through this swamp, he failed to see it, yet the Tory captain made quick progress, turning and stopping every few minutes to let Jake catch up.
"It's only a bit more through this," said Busch. "Then we have solid ground and a hill."
"Are we bringing the forces through this swamp when we attack tomorrow?" asked Jake.
"No, the attack will be on the water," confided Busch. "Only a small force will go against the chain itself; our rangers and the marines will land near Peekskill as a diversion. I will explain it all, in good time. Let's go."
