The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  Jake realized that Busch's absence would make it considerably easier to sabotage their plot. He also knew that the longer they waited at Stoneman's, the better the odds he would show up. And so he endeavored to encourage the troop to leave for its rendezvous.

  A rendezvous had been planned, hadn't it?

  "Keep yer shirt on," said Lewis. "I'm the one what knows the plan, not you. It's me that's in charge."

  "I don't question that," answered Jake. "But we should leave before the rebels find us."

  "Why? We don't have to be aboard the Richmond until 3 p.m. Our horses will get us there within an hour."

  "Given the problems of yesterday," said Jake, acting as if he had known the plan all along, "I suggest we should leave immediately."

  "What do you know of the problems of yesterday?"

  "One of the men told me the horses got sick."

  "Yes, well, they're better now," said Lewis stubbornly.

  "Even so, the rebels will be searching the countryside for us, sir."

  The sergeant galumphed, and cast an eye toward Caleb. As corporal, he should have led the breakout from the jail, or at least the march south. Now his authority had been usurped by the uppity Smith. Would the sergeant's post be next?

  But Jake was well used to dealing with a man such as Lewis, and proceeded to praise the sergeant for his leadership and rapport with the men. His words sounded so sincere that Lewis was somewhat softened.

  "I wonder, Sergeant, why you were not actually placed in charge from the beginning," assayed Jake. "After all, you are considerably closer to the men than Captain Busch. And I don't believe what the others have whispered."

  "Tell it to yer bunter, not me," said the sergeant. While the expression implied that Jake should seek the services of a woman whose loose morals would make her believe anything, there was nonetheless a hint of wounded pride in Lewis's face.

  "As I said, Sergeant, I didn't believe it."

  "Who said it? Who?" Lewis's cheeks screwed up like an angered puffer fish.

  "I would not," said Jake, "turn traitor on any fellow in this troop."

  Lewis's hand jutted forward as he prepared to demand an answer to his question. But the rush of blood to his head so increased the pain in his wounds that he had to stop and put both hands to his skull, as if it were about to explode.

  "Listen, fool," he said after calming somewhat, "when ya've gone through the hells that I've been through, then ya can talk of courage. Anyone can stand up to a salt merchant on the road, or break out of jail."

  Sergeant Lewis spit into the dirt and took a step away, debating with himself. Surely the rebels would launch a search for the escaped prisoners, and that could complicate things. He didn't like Jake Smith, but if he ignored him, Smith was exactly the sort of eager beaver fellow who would stir up the others.

  It was probably Corporal Evans who had gone around whispering. He was just the type.

  Well, the sergeant could deal with both of these bastards in one blow.

  "All right, get your horses!" he thundered to his men, his voice trailing off because of the pounding in his brain. "We ride in five minutes—less, if possible. Smith, find yourself a new uniform from the pile there. We have no more helmets.

  "You, Caleb — take Smith and round up these citizens and lead them south to New York. Hurry, before the damn rebels or their Skinners make an appearance."

  But Jake had no intention of leaving the main column.

  "Begging your pardon, Sergeant, but if Captain Busch doesn't show up — "

  "I'm in charge now, Smith. I'll not have my orders questioned."

  "I merely wanted to point out that I know the layout of the defenses around the chain, which I presume is our target."

  "It might be," allowed Lewis, who in fact had only a hazy idea of the shape their mission would take once they reached the HMS Richmond.

  "Then perhaps it would be better if I came with you to the ship, where my knowledge may prove useful."

  Smith, the sergeant reluctantly conceded, had a point.

  "Caleb, choose another man in his place," he said. "The rest of you, look sharp!"

  "Perhaps six or seven men might be better," suggested Jake. "There are many rebels about."

  "Don't push it, Smith. If yer gonna have a comment every time I give an order, ya'll soon find yourself swingin' upside down from an oak tree, no matter how important ya are."

  Even so, the sergeant did add a few more soldiers to Caleb's force, leaving the ranger complement at a bare two dozen. He boarded his horse — to say "jumped on" would imply more vigor than his bandaged head allowed — and got his troops in motion. A few of the rescued Tories came up to him as he was about to leave and protested that they would prefer to go back to their homes in place of the city.

  "Yer homes are as good as burned down now," he told them. "Ya better do as I say and get yourselves south. Come tonight, the rebels will be getting what they deserve, thanks to His Majesty's Navy. And Earl Graycolmb's Doughty Rangers."

  -Chapter Twenty-nine-

  Wherein, the virtues of the so-called weaker sex are extolled, far too briefly.

  Have we yet paused this narrative long enough to make proper note of the contributions of the female portion of our population to the great cause of Freedom? Have we noted the unparalleled bravery, the sacrifices of the distaff of our society? Or forayed into the differences of women bred unto this New World, bolder than Eve herself, veritable mothers of Liberty?

  Alas, if we have not had time to do it until now, we will lose this chance as well. One of those brave women — nay, she is barely a girl — was last seen riding hard in the night, heading northwards for General Putnam's headquarters to alert him and save the country from ruin. Her ride is every bit as important as Paul Revere's, and should she achieve her goal before daybreak, undoubtedly her name will be mentioned in every sentence that praises the Boston silversmith.

  Unfortunately, she is not to reach her goal, though this is not due to any failing on her own. She rides her horse as swiftly as possible, and while Squire van Clynne might beg to differ, her route is a good one. But — and here is a serious "but" — she is being pursued by one of the most accomplished members of the British Secret Department, a ruthless man who justifies his personal deprivations with the rubric of philosophic experimentation, indeed, a man whose polished demeanor hides the ferocity of a wounded lion.

  Rose McGuiness drove her horse hard once she was free of van Clynne. But the poor animal, stolen from the Tory rangers, had been left in a much weakened state by the poison Jake had fed it the day before. The stallion quickly tired, and within three miles simply stopped in the road, near total collapse.

  Rose slipped from its back and patted the animal's heaving side. She realized it would die if pushed any further, but her mission could not afford a long delay. So she caught the ribbons of her bonnet and tied them firmly around her neck, pulled her cloak tight against the rising wind, and set off on foot up the road.

  The sun tickled the Connecticut hills to her right, struggling to break through the ever-increasing layer of clouds. Rose aimed to approach the first homestead she came to and persuade the owner to lend her a horse to proceed north on.

  She had gone no more than a quarter mile when she heard hoof beats coming up the road behind her. Her first thought was that the fat Dutchman she had rescued finally had realized his mistake, and was now coming to make amends. She put her hands on her hips and continued walking without turning back, smug in the knowledge that her path had proven the correct one.

  But the lesson of Pride and its inevitable downfall that Rose had so recently delivered to Major Dr. Keen was now to be visited on her, with great severity. For the person approaching was not van Clynne but Keen himself. The doctor spurred his drug-stimulated horse, the lingering flicker of pain in his rump where Rose's bullet had buried itself an extra incentive. Hunkered down on his horse like an English riding champion — which indeed he had been during his youth �
� he plucked her from the roadway with no more difficulty than if he'd picked up an injured bird.

  Freedom's partisans are not so easily vanquished. Rose punched and kicked at the side of Keen's horse, forcing the doctor to slow the animal and concentrate on his steering. As she felt Keen's pressure lighten, Rose sunk her teeth viciously into his thigh, which had an immediate effect — he dropped her on the road.

  The girl was barely able to get her arms out to break her fall as she tumbled against the hard clay and rocks. Spilling in a heap, she righted herself and flew for the woods, losing a shoe and her shawl in the process.

  Keen cut her off, pulling the horse around and riding quickly to the edge of the path. Rose turned and darted back and he was before her again, flashing his sardonic smile. The flickering rays of the early light glanced off the rings on his fingers as a golden beam slashed from above and caught her on the neck.

  Rose yelped in pain as she fell down on her back, hurt by the blow from Keen's cane. She remembered the Segallas tucked into her sock and reached for it, only to feel the heavy pressure of Keen's shoe on her hand.

  The doctor flicked his cane and a long blade of silver shot from the tip like the tongue of a serpent's mouth.

  "A very pretty face," he told her. "What a shame if I shall have to cut it severely."

  The point of the knife brushed lightly on her cheek, and suddenly Rose felt incredibly warm, as if she'd been placed next to a fire. Indeed, she was convinced that had happened — for her conscious mind fled, and she lapsed back against the ground in dark limbo.

  Keen examined the small slice he had made on her cheek before hauling her aboard his horse. It was a superficial wound, though it easily accomplished its purpose — the introduction of a sleeping drug into her blood system. The effects ordinarily would last a full hour, but given his experience with van Clynne, the doctor took no chances now. He threw her over his horse and returned quickly to the animal she had abandoned; the horse's ties served as hard restraints against her wrists and ankles. He then took a small envelope from his satchel, and mixed it with a few drops of a blue liquid contained in a dropper bottle; the doctor had to use a spoon to complete the operation and the mixture was crude and inexact. Nonetheless, he could tell from the scent — a light mixture of chamomile and licorice masking a more medicinal flavor — that the proper reaction had taken place. And the drug had the correct effect: after Rose was forced to swallow, her body suddenly bolted upright, eyes wide open.

  Rose was both a bold and strong young woman, a fine example of American breeding. But she was no match for Keen or his formula. Her throat burned with the hot liquid, then she began to feel dizzy.

  Keen, standing at her side, began to make suggestions to help the process of the drug along. Though her limbs were clamped with tight straps, he told her she was free. He suggested that her arms had been changed to wings; he could tell by her smile that she believed she had escaped him at last.

  "Who is the eagle flying near you?" Keen asked in a level voice, as if he saw the vision he was introducing to her mind. The technique had been taught to him by the African necromancer who gave him the drugs.

  "Colonel Gibbs," replied Rose.

  "Your lover?"

  She shook her head. "My fiancé Robert is working on the chain. Colonel Gibbs is going to protect it. He'll peck the Tories' eyes out. I must fly to General Putnam, and tell him. The fat Dutchman will help. The Tories plan to attack tomorrow night. I — must — go."

  Keen let her body collapse back onto the ground as the drug's more useful effects wore off. She could now be expected to sleep for several hours, and would wake with a terrible headache — assuming, of course, that Keen decided to keep her alive until then.

  The doctor faced a minor dilemma, in that the girl had revealed that this Gibbs character was trying to sabotage a British military operation. While his own mission naturally took ultimate priority, he was nonetheless bound to thwart them, especially since the British target was the chain, which he properly understood to be the key rebel defense on the upper Hudson. He would have to alert his fellow countrymen.

  There was only one ship on the river this far north that could serve as a command post for such an operation, the HMS Richmond. Keen's best course of action was to find the ship and its commander, inform him of the plot, and continue with his business.

  This was not necessarily a detour, he realized; it might very well lead him directly to his two targets. Nonetheless, he was annoyed, for it meant he would have to postpone his dissection of the light sack of flesh he hoisted in front of himself on the horse.

  As Keen turned the animal back toward the cottage where his carriage had been left, Rose murmured something. Still in the last throes of the suggestive phase of the drug, she repeated it at Keen's request: "Just let me catch a wink of sleep, darling."

  "Oh yes," chuckled the doctor, patting her cheek as he set off. "You'll need your rest."

  -Chapter Thirty-

  Wherein, Captain Busch is too late, Squire van Clynne is too poor, and Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs too quick.

  The rangers had been gone from Stoneman's for nearly an hour by the time Busch arrived. But there was still plenty of evidence that they had found hot action there — the captain quickly noticed the damage to the barn, and then saw the crude grave of his soldier. He jumped from his horse and knelt at the tree-limb cross, convinced by some unworldly sense that the man below had been killed by his nemesis, Jake Smith. It was as if the knowledge was contained in the soil he rubbed between his fingers.

  "Damn you, Jake Smith," he cursed as he rose. "I don't know what your true name is, but when I find out it will be sung in infamy throughout the land."

  "Infamy!" repeated Wedget, still sitting on his horse. "Kill Jake Smith!"

  "You!" shouted Busch. "Off the horse."

  "But — "

  "Off, I say!" Busch took two strides to his horse and grabbed his pistol.

  In that short distance his stature seemed to double. Wedget slid off the horse quickly — only to find the captain standing before him, pistol in hand.

  "You gave me your word you'd save me," cried the former bully.

  "I did nothing of the sort," said Busch. He cocked back the lock as tears rolled down Wedget's face. "Off with your shoes."

  "But my feet are swollen inside."

  "I will shoot them off, if you wish."

  Wedget yanked away at the boots with all his might. It was plain that he was speaking the truth; his feet were in horrible shape, filled with pus and bleeding besides. Busch realized no further precaution was necessary against his being followed.

  "A word of any of this to the rebels, a word of me or any citizen loyal to the Crown, and I will search you out and pull the tongue from your mouth with my own fingers," promised Busch. He pointed the gun back up the road. "That direction will take you to New York, if you're lucky."

  "B - But I want to come with you."

  Busch's answer was only to point the pistol at Wedget's face. The bully took a step backwards in fear, and then the man who yesterday had proclaimed himself complete despot of his squalid domain lost control of his sphincter.

  So may it be with all bullies, and especially that one most pernicious, King George III himself. Busch shook his head in disgust, then leapt to his horse and galloped off in pursuit of the damnable Smith. Wedget remained sitting in the dust for a long while, sobbing softly to himself.

  Claus van Clynne, Esquire, had by now had a sufficient breakfast to find himself in a relatively forgiving and generous mood. This spirit extended itself toward the upstart young woman whom he had rescued earlier from Dr. Keen's clutches — for so the story formed itself in his mind, now that he had time to arrange it for proper dramatic effect — and most certainly would include any enthusiastic patriot who found it within his heart to extend him credit in the name of the Cause.

  "No matter what your politics, you'll pay me for the meal you've just had," said the innkeeper where he ha
d breakfasted. "I don't give an owl's hoot for your feelings toward me, one way or another."

  "Come, come, my good Jan. How long have we been acquainted?"

  "An hour too long, by my reckoning," spat the keeper. "Claus van Clynne, I've never known you to travel without three bags of silver coins tied to your waist, and twice that number hanging from your neck."

  "You may search me, sir, if you do not take my word," said van Clynne, sweeping his hands out in a great gesture. "Though the day a Dutchman does not trust a fellow Dutchman — well, that is a sad day for us all, is it not?"

  "I'd trust him as far as I could throw him," said Jan's wife from the doorway. Missy Lina had always been a disagreeable woman, as far as van Clynne was concerned.

  "I hope you are not seeking to search me as well," he told her. "There are certain proprieties, even among friends."

  "Come, Claus, stop this nonsense and pay up," said Jan, holding out his palm.

  "I tell you, I have been robbed. First of my salt, then of some paltry coins — mostly clipped, fortunately — and finally of all my warrants and true currency. I am as penniless as the day I was born. My wealth perished in a fire several miles from here."

  "What about the notes you keep in the heel of your shoe?"

  Jan turned and looked at his wife in amazement. Van Clynne blustered again that all his purses had been stolen.

  "I'm amazed that my integrity is called into question," he said. "I am penniless and you will find no coin in my possession. I am searching for my friend Jake Gibbs; surely you can wait until I find him or he comes here himself, for he will be glad to pay you from the sum he owes me. He has blond hair, stands just over six foot and is often seen in a contemptuous three-cornered hat. Despite his poor taste in headgear, he is a personal confidante of His Most Excellent Excellency, General George Washington, and therefore should be dealt with accordingly."