by Jim DeFelice
"I did not arrange for an attempt on your life, nor did I work with others," Jake said solemnly. "Chance put us together. I admit I took full advantage of it."
Jake undid the buttons on his green coat and threw it to the deck, kicking it away with a disdainful push of his boot. "I am Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs, a member of General George Washington's army. I demand to be treated as a prisoner of war, as I am entitled."
"You are entitled to nothing," declared Valden. "You came aboard as a spy."
"You betrayed your country and your king," said Busch.
In waistcoat, bareheaded, unarmed — save for the elk knife still concealed in his boot — Jake addressed the entire ranger troop, speaking as boldly as old Sam Adams would have.
"It is you who have betrayed your country. You would give up your birthright to a man you have never seen, and who regards you as a farmer regards the ants beneath his feet."
Busch spit on the deck. "You are beneath contempt, aligning yourself with criminals."
"It is your allegiance that puzzles me," said Jake, his voice a mild, calm rebuke. "A man with as much intelligence and courage as you ought to be fighting against the people who would make us slaves, not acting as their lapdog."
"The Devil speaks with a golden tongue," said Busch, his words equally soft.
The reader should not misinterpret Jake's next actions as the ship's captain and Valden did. For when two marines stepped up to grab him, Jake meekly let his arms be taken, and did not offer more than token protest as his hands were slapped in a set of iron cuffs. Before being searched, he volunteered that there was a knife in his boot.
The patriot spy surrendered so easily not because fighting would have been futile — certainly he would have been overpowered eventually, but by grabbing a nearby cutlass he might have taken a half-dozen Loyalists and perhaps one or both of the officers before being slain. Jake gave in because he wanted to turn his surrender to the patriots' advantage. He went easily to the captain's cabin, and gave a full if utterly false accounting of his operations, saying that he had been assigned by General Washington to spy in the area, though he had as yet been unable to report. He studiously avoided giving any impression that Old Put knew there was a plot afoot, hoping that the details he had already given Rose would be enough to foil it.
Jake said he'd been due to make a report the previous night, but had been unable to reach his contact in Dobb's Ferry. He named a prominent Tory there — a man he knew was loyal to the king, not the Americans — as his contact. He also took full credit for Johnson's disappearance, deciding that it was best to solve that mystery for the British before they complicated things by trying to do so themselves. When Captain Gidoin asked who his accomplices were, Jake had a simple reply: "If I had assistants, would I have been so easily found out?"
Busch, confident now that he had squelched the rebel design to foil him, attended to his plans with Valden and the captain of the Dependence, Lieutenant James Clark. Clark had been a mate on the Phoenix in December when the galley was captured, and as customary with the navy, given command of the prize.
The rangers were still shocked by the announcement that a man they had looked toward as a leader had been discovered a traitor. Taken together, the events of the last two days had greatly undermined their faith in the British, and while they found themselves now committed on this path, they could not but fear they had chosen unwisely. Nearly every soldier, even when reminded of the bounty offered for his allegiance, would have sworn on three Bibles that he would have preferred the war never happened.
Not so their leader. Busch emerged from his conference and strode across the deck to his men with firm resolve, projecting the strenuous image of a leader with a full grip on Future's throat. If he reproached himself for having misjudged Gibbs, there was no sign of it. If he felt betrayed — if indeed some part of him wanted to hear from Gibbs that he was indeed the man he'd taken him for — no one would have guessed from his manner.
A company of marines was mustered alongside the rangers behind the tarpaulined supplies, waiting for their commanders to give them their last instructions. As Busch walked forward, he caught a glimpse of Jake being led from the captain's quarters under guard. He swung to his right, pulled his hands together at the hips of his green ranger coat, and addressed a knot of sailors standing near the main mast.
"I need a strong man who is not afraid of becoming a hero to posterity," said Busch without blushing. "You, sailor, what is your name?"
The man, a tall fellow from Devonshire, smirked a bit before answering. It was obvious he thought the colonial captain full of himself. "Able Seaman Williams, sir."
"Can you paddle a canoe?"
"I've never tried, sir."
"Never?"
"I've stroked an oar in a ship's boat many times, if that counts."
"Are you brave, Williams?"
The hard look in Busch's eye caught the seaman off guard, and he took an involuntary step backwards. His face turned as red as the sun that sets over the Indian Ocean.
"Well?"
Williams pulled his chest up. "I am as brave as any man in His Majesty's Service, sir."
"Excellent. I have need of a volunteer I can count on. Come with me."
Williams fell in without so much as a glance at his comrades. Busch — who stood a full six inches shorter than him — had transfixed the man by some innate power.
Jake, watching from near the cabin, could not help but smile. The show had undoubtedly been put on for his benefit, but that did not make the figure strutting across to the knot of red and green coats any less impressive.
"We will board the boats shortly," Busch told the troop. "We will proceed with the Dependence to the far shore, where we will wait until twilight. When the shadows are long enough, we will move ahead and engage the rebels directly below their fort near the Peek Skill Creek. The sergeant will coordinate the attack on land, and we will have the support of Lieutenant Clark and his craft. Myself and Seaman Williams will proceed upriver once the assault is launched. We will arrive just after their patrols have retired; I timed it myself the other day.
"You see the canoe lashed there on deck," he added as two sailors pulled back the canvas before them to reveal the odd looking but deadly craft. "It will be a surprise for the rebels, I warrant."
The vessel was a cross between a native dugout canoe and a pregnant Franklin stove. A cone made of tin and painted black covered the entire front half of the canoe, its leading edge shaped into a triangular wedge like a rounded pyramid. The second half of the canoe was more familiar, though a little wider than normal, apparently to add extra buoyancy.
The tin canister at the front contained a massive amount of gunpowder, which would be set off by a special waterproof charge contained in a glass tube. It was this charge that was to do the work against the river's iron chain; Busch would lash the canoe against the floats and set it off. Once the cable was broken, the British fleet would be free to proceed upriver at its leisure.
Jake surmised from the fact that only a small ship and not the entire fleet was anchored behind the Richmond that there was a certain degree of skepticism about the plan among the British command. Nonetheless, they were happy to let some Loyalist rangers take a crack at it, especially since their contribution amounted to landing a few marines ashore and running a captured galley under a few ill-aimed cannon.
But it was just the sort of bold, unexpected attack that would work best if the fleet stayed away. A full mustering of ships in the river would have put the entire countryside on alert. And more troops, no matter how well trained, would not increase the chances of success.
Busch turned from briefing his troops and walked back toward Jake, who with his marine guards was still waiting for the captain to finish some other business.
"I would have taken you with me," Busch told him. "You would have had the glory instead of this simple sailor."
"It would have been your greatest mistake," said Jake. "I would
have stopped you."
"I doubt it."
"I'll stop you still."
Busch laughed. "You'll be hanging from a noose before I'm halfway there. I'm only too sorry that I can't stay to see that."
Jake shrugged bravely as the Tory went to supervise the crew struggling to get the bomb canoe into the water. Aided by a block and tackle, they finally lowered the vessel to the water, where it was tied to another canoe, and then rowed to the Dependence. Both small boats would be towed upriver behind the galley.
The Dependence herself looked oddly benign. Her sails gave a taut rap as the wind continued to pick up, the sheets fluttering against their rigging. The massive pipe in her bow was quiet, covered with a loose black tarpaulin that from a distance looked like a casually deposited blanket. Her sailors, in their striped jerseys and black trousers, exuded the nonchalant but busy air of men working an admiral's pleasure cruise, bustling about as if preparing for one more dalliance before the weather broke. The ship took on a load of marines and then her complement began working the oars, galley slaves like ancient Athenians.
Busch's company, again under the sergeant's command, descended to their whaleboats after the marines. Their captain had buttressed their emotions, though here and there a face betrayed great doubt.
Even taken together, the British landing force was many times smaller than the several hundred men that had harried Peekskill a few months before, but it was more than enough to draw attention from the chain while Busch and his sailor set their charge.
Jake busied his eyes with an appreciation of the rugged tree-lined shore to the north. His focus blurred as he gazed northward, as if he could somehow spot the iron and wood floating in the water. By now, Rose and van Clynne would have delivered his messages to Putnam; the general would be waiting.
The patriot spy bit the inside of his lip, wondering if his decision to admit his identity had been the correct one.
Some reflection on the choices of his life, both immediately past and those of long standing, were inevitable given the circumstances. The ship's crew, having gotten the raiding party safely off, now turned its attention to the traitor. A gibbet party was a rare treat, especially on so disciplined a ship as the Richmond, and the very ad hoc nature of the arrangements added to the excitement. Jake's situation was not unlike that of the first few Christians to be eaten by lions in the Forum, before the Romans truly got the hang of things. There was genuine excitement and anticipation, and even Captain Gidoin, who had witnessed executions of many different varieties, exhibited some jitters, which he disguised by striding back and forth as the rope was readied.
There was some discussion of whether the condemned man ought to be allowed the privilege of climbing up the mast to the spot where he was to be pushed off; this would require his binds be loosened if not completely freed, and it was decided Jake had forfeited such a right by rebelling against the king. Besides, there was some question of whether he might then be able to jump off of his own free will, and what the consequences of that would be; there was a heavy superstition against suicide aboard ship, though the doctor argued that a man who jumped under such circumstances could not be properly considered a suicide.
"You're not going to make me walk the plank?" asked Jake lightly.
"You've been reading too many rebel journals," said the captain. "This is a ship of the Royal Navy. We do not allow such barbarities."
"No, you merely hang people without proper trials."
"Gag him," said Gidoin firmly. "Then haul him up by the neck. If that doesn't kill him, drop him and repeat the process until it does."
Jake's curses were stifled by a stiff cloth that forced its way between his teeth. A rope thick with the toil of the sea was pulled around his throat and the knots adjusted while the other end was tossed upwards. Just as Jake felt the pressure beneath his chin, the ship's captain put up his arm and stopped the proceedings.
Merciful God, thought Jake to himself, at last justice prevails. I will have a trial in New York City, where at least I will gain some fame from a speech before being condemned to death.
"I'm forgetting myself," said Gidoin. "I'll not have a hanging without some passage from the Bible."
A collective sigh of disappointment at the delay rose from the sailors. A lad was sent scurrying to the doctor's cabin. Jake felt the light prick of raindrops on his face and looked up into the pregnant clouds. He wondered how wet he would get before being hanged.
"Ahoy! I say ahoy!"
So many of the ship's complement ran to the side to see who was yelling at them that the Richmond began to list.
"Help me up! Come now, I haven't all day! Toss me a line, lubber your yards, move your masts, I have important business and news for the captain!"
Frowning, Gidoin walked to the side. Without saying a word, he motioned with his arm and a half-dozen sailors flew into action. In a thrice, a rotund Dutchman in a black-gray beaver and old-fashioned clothes unceremoniously toppled through the entry port onto the deck.
-Chapter Thirty-six-
Wherein, Claus van Clynne has a salty time taking custody of his prisoner.
Allow me to introduce myself," said the Dutchman after he righted himself. "Claus van Clynne, Esquire, counterintelligence agent par excellence, at your service. And — "
Suddenly the squire's complexion, which had been shading toward a deep green, changed to beet red. "There you are, spy!" he shouted. "I arrest you in the name of His Majesty the King! You shall not escape me this time, you cowardly bastard — you are my prisoner!"
Van Clynne advanced on his man like a first-rate warship bearing down on the enemy line. His arms flared, his neck telescoped; were it not for a smudge of mud on his russet socks, he might have appeared the personification of a heavenly avenger. Indeed, his thundering voice and sharp manner brought the entire ship to attention, and a few superstitious souls believed that Old Man River himself had come aboard, aiming to stop a deed that would cast bad luck upon the boat and all who sailed through this stretch of water.
"You there," van Clynne said to a marine. "Take charge of the prisoner. Get that ridiculous necklace off him and double the ropes on his hands and feet. You don't know who you're dealing with. Move!"
The last sentence thundered against the hills loud enough to wake Hudson's crew.
"Belay that," said Gidoin, stepping forward. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Van Clynne swept around and doffed his hat in an aristocratic gesture that would have impressed the dandiest macaroni. His voice changed instantly from brimstone to sugar. "As I was saying, sir, my name is Claus van Clynne, and I am engaged on a mission for the king to rout out treacherous traitors."
"The king?"
"Through Sir Henry Bacon," said van Clynne, letting the name drop like a piece of fiery shot on the deck. "You have heard of General Howe's intelligence chief, I assume."
"Don't insult me."
"I wouldn't presume to," said van Clynne, "and I expect similar respect."
Gidoin eyed him suspiciously. "Captain Busch warned me this man had several accomplices."
"Do I look like a rebel, sir?" Van Clynne stuck his nose into the air. "Here you, marine — double his binds, I tell you. This man is not only clever, he is a thief. He will steal the very ropes you tie him with if they are not heavy enough."
As van Clynne fussed, an assistant followed him aboard. Wearing the somewhat tattered clothes of a country bumpkin, the man — we have met him before as Private Martin, though he now wears even less official markings than previously — saluted his commander and informed him that all was ready.
"Bring it aboard then," said van Clynne. "Must I issue a specific order for every stage of this operation! I tell you, sir," the Dutchman confided to Captain Gidoin, "there was a time when subalterns showed their own initiative. You could count on them to take the proper actions and get where they were going without having to wash their linen for them."
"Excuse me," said Gidoin loudly, "bu
t just what do you think you're bringing aboard?"
"Salt," said van Clynne. "A dozen barrels of it, and at bargain prices, too. Lord Howe will be overjoyed."
"We are not a supply ship."
"Admiral Lord Howe will be pleased to discover your high opinion of yourself," said van Clynne in a withering voice. "Dump the salt overboard!"
Captain Gidoin was an able seafarer and a competent captain, but when van Clynne was in the middle of a streak like this, no mere mortal could resist him. The references to Black Dick Howe, the navy commander whom Gidoin answered to, were particularly potent. The captain grimaced and belayed the latest command, waving two men to help hoist the barrels aboard.
"You thought you saw the last of me, I warrant," said van Clynne, addressing Jake. "Thought you'd escape me by giving yourself up here. Ha, I say. You'll not get away so easily."
"We were just about to hang him," said one of Gidoin's lieutenants, Justin McRae. "Not set him free."
"Oh, surely you jest. Excuse me, sir, but hanging is the least of his worries now. Hanging would be pleasurable. Come, take him to my boat. He must be punished suitably — hanging will follow his being burned at the stake, which itself will come after his being drawn and quartered. The only question is when he will be shot."
Gidoin put his arm up and the two marines who had taken Jake's arms halted. "Do you have any proof that you are who you say you are?"
"What sort of proof do you require?"
"Some insignia of rank or paper."
"A spy who carries proof that he is a spy? Let me ask you, sir — have you been at this business very long?"
"It is difficult to believe that a Dutchman could be employed in His Majesty's service," said McRae.
"Excuse me, but what is the name of the river we are floating in?" demanded van Clynne.
The officer looked at him as if he were a simpleton. "The North River."
"Is it not called the Hudson as well?"
"What's your point?"
Van Clynne accented his dignity by puffing his belly— an awesome sight. "My point, sir, is that this Hudson fellow belonged to which country?"
