The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  "You don't know Captain Busch very well," said Evans. "Though he talked for an hour about how you saved him."

  "He repaid the favor tonight. Twice."

  "Then how were you captured?"

  "We were surprised afterwards. He escaped."

  Caleb nodded, and realizing that some of the others were watching, turned his attention to the fallen bully.

  "Take that, you bloody bastard," he said, kicking him.

  "You, sir," said one of the Tory prisoners to Jake. "What is your name?"

  "Jake Smith."

  "We all owe you a debt of gratitude. Come on, share a drink with us."

  Now the celebration flew into high fury — the paraphernalia in the corner was indeed a still, built with the tacit approval of their jailers. The men had used a good portion of their rations to brew a repulsive-smelling swill so potent that Jake began to feel dizzy the moment a cup was poured for him. He was given the honor of the first sip, and reacted by coughing violently, much to the amusement of the other prisoners.

  They, apparently, were well used to the stuff, and proceeded to drink it as easily as if it were pure stream water. Within half an hour the entire lot of them, Caleb included, were falling down drunk. Even Jake, who took nothing after the sip he spit out, felt the inebriating effect of the spirits.

  Watching quietly from the corner as his fellow inmates passed out one by one, Jake began to feel great sympathy for the man who had started out to fix a rotted floorboard in his house and ended by constructing a brand new structure. Not quite twenty-four hours before, he had decided to forfeit a few hours of sleep to best some Tory rangers; he'd ended up discovering a major British plot against the key defense on the Hudson, then worked his way deep into it as much by accident as design. He was now a prisoner of his own cunning: none of the jailers would believe his story, and while John Jay certainly would — he and Jay had met twice before the war — the judge wasn't due for many days, by which time not only would the chain have been attacked but Schuyler would undoubtedly have concluded Jake's mission to fool Howe had failed. The general would have no choice but go ahead with his plans to abandon Albany and cede upper New York to the enemy, essentially surrendering the middle of the country to the king.

  Which all in all might not be a bad idea, if Jake didn't find some way of stopping the Tories from destroying the chain.

  -Chapter Twenty-

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne discovers a cure for the common cold.

  The effects of their homemade concoction were devastating — inside an hour the prisoners had melted into haphazard piles on the ground, as dead to the world as if run through with bayonets. Jake resolved to find the man responsible for the formula, and put him to work for the patriot cause.

  Tomorrow. For now, he had things to do.

  The plan was simple — sneak out, double back down the road to the point where van Clynne was waiting two miles away, tell the squire everything he knew of the scheme against the chain, and then come back and rejoin the sleeping prisoners. "Rescued" with them in the morning, he would be united with Busch just in time to sabotage his plans personally. That would still leave Jake three whole days to return to Albany with his message for Schuyler.

  Jake's Dutch companion knew of a cosmic law to the effect that the simpler a plan sounds in outline, the more difficult it is to execute. Fortunately, van Clynne was not there to spread this particular wet blanket, and Jake was free to concentrate on the first leg of his plan with as much optimism as could be mustered in a room full of snoring drunks. He rose quietly, and made some movements he meant as decoys; finding no reaction, he walked to one of the piss buckets and relieved himself, taking a circuitous route back with still no sign that anyone else was awake. When a short burst of "Yankee Doodle" failed to raise a reaction, he decided it was time to leave.

  How to go? The boards on the side windows were secured with enough nails to lay ten good-sized floors. The choir window, on the other hand, had been left open, and provided an inviting avenue of egress, except for the barricaded doorway to the loft.

  Even standing on two buckets, the six-foot-two patriot couldn't quite reach the choir's bottom beam. Jake jumped, but his fingertips just barely grazed the wood before he fell back down to the ground. A second jump ended with similar results, except that he began to feel a little tenderness in his knee.

  Two attempts launched with a running start got him closer, but it wasn't until he placed a discarded board from the corner on the buckets as a kind of reverse diving plank that he managed to grab hold of the thick piece of wood running along the bottom of the loft.

  Jake rocked himself back and forth, building momentum for a swing over the four-foot railing. He had to let go of one hand to get enough of his body over; when he did so, he hung for a moment, his weight imperfectly balanced between his leg and his right arm.

  Had the light been any better, he surely would have fallen, for he could have seen how precarious his position was. But there are certain times when it is best to operate in the dark, or at least semidarkness, and this was definitely one of them. After a breath to renew his strength, Jake pulled himself up and over the choir; he rolled as if a log clearing an obstruction.

  And clanged his back on the organ chair, while simultaneously pricking his abdomen with Wedget's knife, which was tucked into his belt. How he managed to stifle a foul curse at that moment remains one of the great mysteries of this tale.

  Having attained the choir and assured himself that his wounds were only temporary if painful annoyances, Jake confronted a new problem. The window was devoid of glass, and passage through it could be accomplished as easily as one might walk through an open doorway — except that in so doing, one would fall twenty feet, directly into the lap of a sleeping sentry.

  Not for the first time in his life, Jake wished for wings.

  He looked upward from the window, hoping to find the roof within grasping distance. It was, had his arms been fifty feet long. Nor were the branches of nearby trees any closer. But further examination presented him with another escape route — the facade itself.

  Any reader who ever has an option in this regard should choose to be shut up in a church built of stone or brick, instead of one made of wood. Wooden churches can be made to look considerably more fetching, but their sides do not present many hand- or footholds, making it difficult to climb down from second-story windows.

  Which is what Jake now proceeded to do. We will not increase the suspense by telling you precisely how many times he slipped, nor mention that the sentry stirred momentarily just as he stepped out the window. It is probably of only passing interest that Jake's hands became unbearably sweaty about halfway down. But perhaps it is not completely irrelevant that his waistcoat snagged on the clapboard edging when he was but seven or eight feet from the ground, just at the moment he was pushing off the facade to jump and run for the woods.

  Jake swung around crazily, caught at the middle and dangling over the ground, hanging by the barest thread in a pose more than a little reminiscent of Icarus's the second before he crashed to earth.

  He nearly yelled aloud, cursing the splinter that had caught him, and asking that God himself look down and free him.

  No one enjoys being left hanging, especially when it is by one's vest some feet off the ground. But how much less enjoyable is it to be suddenly freed from that position? And so one must always be careful what one wishes for — as Jake discovered in the next moment when the well-worn threads of his waistcoat gave way.

  The sentry posted at the front of the church was representative of the many green recruits who made up Putnam's army. Most were brave and patriotic lads, ready to make the greatest sacrifice possible in the name of Freedom. But sacrifice on the battlefield was one thing, and discipline behind the lines quite another. The fact that he was sleeping on duty was, sad to say, typical not only in his unit but much of the service. The only thing unique about it was that he had chosen to sleep in so conspicuous a place
.

  And a fortuitous one, as far as Jake was concerned. For his tumble took him right into the poor man. If not nearly so cushy as a featherbed, he nevertheless broke his fall. Jake's foot struck the poor man on the side of the temple; his sleep deepened several degrees, but except for a change in the tone of his snores, there was no sign he noticed.

  Jake didn't bother to ask. Quickly looking around and seeing that there were no other guards in sight, he leapt up and made a dash for the woods. Undoubtedly the other two or three militiamen who would have been posted to guard duty had chosen better places to hide while dozing — in this instance, dereliction of duty was of great service to the Cause.

  We will leave Jake hurrying through the countryside while we check briefly on the man whom he is racing to meet, Claus van Clynne, The reader will recall that the Dutchman was last seen being hoisted to his feet by Major Dr. Keen's driver, Phillip Percival. In the interval, he was guided into Keen's coach at gunpoint and driven away in the opposite direction of the troop he'd led to intercept Jake.

  They were now riding hastily southeastwards, toward a small cottage owned by a man named Marshad. The fellow, a country lawyer before the war, was now in General Bacon's employ as a British agent, and the house had been placed at Major Dr. Keen's disposal.

  The doctor had developed a certain fondness for van Clynne, which expressed itself in the great care he took in making sure the ropes binding the squire were just tight enough to cut off the circulation to his extremities but not do any lasting harm.

  He wanted that bit of fun for himself.

  "One of the difficulties of operating in the wilderness is that one finds himself having to make do with expedient substitutes instead of the proper tools," Keen explained to his prisoner as they drove. "Were we in London or even New York, I might be able to offer you a proper torture. Here, I'm afraid, we'll have to lash some makeshift thing together."

  "It's quite all right if we skip it entirely," said van Clynne. "I have some business to conduct, and would just as soon be on my way."

  "What sort of business would that be, exactly?"

  "It has to do with salt."

  "Still worrying about your stolen salt? I suppose it's good to have something to divert the attention with." Keen smiled and reached down to a worn brown leather valise beneath the seat. Opening it, he examined several small bottles before settling on one shaped like an elongated teardrop. He then took a syringe from the case. The instrument consisted of a long, tapered glass tube with another inserted into the middle; a rubber piston could be used for creating a vacuum and drawing liquid out of a standing pool — or a bottle in this case, as he filled the cylinder with the liquid.

  "I see that you've taken my advice and gotten rid of the hat," said van Clynne approvingly. "Now perhaps you will work on a more sensible coat. That blue is suited only for cities."

  "I'm going to squirt this up your nose to achieve the most rapid effect," Keen replied, testing the pump. "It will tickle at first, but you'll soon grow to like it."

  "I suppose it would be too much to ask that the experience be delayed until my head cold clears."

  "Oh, this will remedy any blockage, I assure you."

  Van Clynne turned his head away and tried to resist, but being bound there was only so much he could do. The liquid shot into his nasal cavity despite his efforts.

  Keen sat back on his seat, watching his subject with great interest. The drug he'd administered was a particularly potent incapacitating agent, but given van Clynne's reaction to the jimsonweed dust and its belladonna, the doctor was not at all surprised that it failed to take effect immediately. His patient sniffled and wheezed, and then gave a great cough that shook the whole carriage.

  "You seem to be right, sir," declared van Clynne, whose voice remained surprisingly chipper, given the circumstances. "I can breathe much more clearly. You have chased away my cold; I congratulate you fully."

  With that, the Dutchman promptly fell off into stone unconsciousness.

  -Chapter Twenty-one-

  Wherein, Jake finds reason to be disappointed in friends as well as acquaintances.

  Providence had provided Jake with a straight and narrow path from the jail to Pine's Bridge, but he wasted little energy rejoicing as he trotted toward his rendezvous with van Clynne. The Dutchman would have been waiting an inordinately long time, undoubtedly filling it with complaints about the unpunctuality of American agents.

  That or snoring. Of the two, Jake preferred facing the complaints, though if the squire were snoring there was at least the advantage that any vicious animals in the vicinity would have been driven miles away.

  But van Clynne was doing neither. Jake searched the creek side as well as the nearby woods, stumbling and cursing in the dim starlight, his opinion of Dutch reliability suffering a severe reassessment. His anger exploded in a torrent of curses loud and strong enough to wake the dead; fortunately there were no corpses in the vicinity — nor van Clynne either, for had he appeared at that moment he might have been made into one.

  This uncharacteristic (and, it must be admitted, somewhat unfair) display of temper soon ran its course, and Jake began plotting his next move. It was already far past midnight; if van Clynne had intended on meeting him he would have arrived hours before. Jake could not risk going to Putnam himself, as his absence when the Tory prisoners woke would raise serious suspicions.

  Still, he must find someone to carry what he knew of the plans to General Putnam. Justice Prisco or some member of his family — the plain but patriotic Jane, perhaps — would be perfect, but Prisco's inn was more than ten miles south, too far to walk even if Jake could count on borrowing a horse to get back on.

  It took only a few moments more for his thoughts to turn to the girl he had met at nearby Stoneman's farm: Rose McGuiness. A woman would be allowed to pass freely through the countryside, and one as clever — not to mention pretty — as she would have an easy time getting to the general's headquarters at Peekskill. Rose had been prepared to burn down her master's barn in the name of Independence. Surely she would take up an errand such as this.

  There was, naturally, one slight complication — there was a good chance the ranger captain as well as the troop had returned there by now. But those were just the sort of difficulties one needed to keep the blood circulating against the cold.

  Stoneman's was under a mile away, and Jake ran nearly the entire distance, loosening his vest buttons but otherwise making no concession to the exertion. Despite the faint fight afforded by the new moon, the way was clear enough, and in a short time he had reached the woods near the side of the farm.

  His luck now took one of its rare turns against him. The patriot could see from the road that a large fire was burning in the barnyard. He could hear nothing as he snuck closer, but he was so distracted by the fire that he didn't realize there was a ranger sentry guarding the woods until he was almost upon him. Jake threw himself down the instant he made sense of the tall shadow and its bayonet-tipped musket; the man heard the shuffle of brush in the woods and took a few tentative steps forward to investigate.

  It was Jake's friend and one-time mentor, Dr. Franklin, who had suggested that the American forces be equipped with Indian bows and arrows, noting that not only were the materials plentiful but the weapons were simple and dependable. Jake could have added another benefit — they were nearly silent, and at a moment such as this an arrow would have been a godsend. As it was, he found himself sprawled forward between a row of skunk cabbage and prickle bushes, barely daring to breathe, his only weapons the Segallas pocket pistol and Wedget's knife, both of which were tucked safely — as far as any adversary was concerned — inside his vest and boot, respectively.

  Any movement would give him away. Jake lay on the ground, hoping the shadows were thick enough to guard him from the sentry's vision.

  They nearly were. After the man passed by, the patriot spy rose to his feet slowly and drew his knife. But even as his fingers closed around t
he crude handle, the guard suddenly swung back around, advancing with the speed of a frigate before a hurricane wind.

  "Who goes there?" demanded the Tory.

  "It's I," said Jake, hoping the man's vision was as clouded by the deep shadows and brush as his.

  "I who?"

  "Caleb Evans," lied Jake, taking a step to his right, away from the guard.

  "Caleb, where have you been? We're supposed to be rescuing you in the morning."

  "I've just escaped from the Americans." Jake took another step as the sentry reached the spot where he had first stood. They were three yards apart, perpendicular to each other.

  One leap, and Jake could fall upon him. But the gun might go off, and bring the others.

  "Where is Captain Busch?" asked Jake, ducking and moving as silently as possible. He aimed to get behind the man, killing him before he could alert the others with a shout or gunfire.

  "We're waiting for him," said the guard, confused and turning to see where his fellow was. "We returned just an hour ago — our day and evening have been a shitten disaster!"

  Jake's careful plot was almost undone by his laughter. "Why?" he managed, stifling himself with his arm and moving back, continuing to circle through the brush and trees that separated them. The two men were barely six feet apart.

  "We never made it to Salem." The sentry twisted again. It would be nearly impossible to get behind him.

  Jake knelt but made no other noise, deciding to change tactics.

  The Tory took another step forward.

  "All the horses got sick on the road a mile away, and Sergeant Lewis as well. It was hours before they recovered. We had to walk the animals back, and the sergeant is in as foul a mood as ever I've seen. Where the hell are you, Caleb?"

  "Right here," said Jake, springing forward. His blade cut a quick, deep hole at the Tory's throat; the only sound the sentry could make was a surprised gasp as his body surrendered its soul.