by Jim DeFelice
"He was an Englishman."
"Precisely. In the service of which country?"
"And what do we have here, an exchange program?" asked Gidoin.
"Well, sir, if that is the tone you're to take with me, I'll be off. Joseph," he said to Martin, "see to the prisoner for me. Find some coat for him; I wouldn't want him catching cold in this drizzle."
"Excuse me," said Gidoin, "but you won't be taking him anywhere until he's been hanged properly as a traitor and a spy. And you'd best provide yourself with some proof of your identification, or you'll suffer the same fate."
"Well, now, there's a complication," answered van Clynne, thoughtfully rubbing his cheek and placing his hand into his pocket. He retrieved a pass from Admiral Howe, another from his brother General Sir William Howe, and a long Dutch pipe. "Would anyone have a match?" he asked after handing over the papers.
One of the sailors fetched a light for him. The rain was not yet coming down hard enough to extinguish the flame, but the Dutchman was careful to shelter the bowl and take no chances. After a pair of puffs, he offered it to the captain but Gidoin declined.
"Now, as I understand it, you want me to take a dead man back to General Bacon for interrogation," said van Clynne, snatching his documents back. "Well now, I fear he would not be overly enthusiastic about that."
Gidoin frowned.
"Perhaps you know the general better than I," said van Clynne. "I will give him your regards."
The Dutchman's bold step toward the edge of the ship was arrested by Gidoin himself, taking hold of his arm. During all of this time, Jake had kept quietly to himself — not difficult to do, considering that he was bound and gagged and had a rope around his neck. His hopes of rescue had alternately soared and soured. Was this all van Clynne had planned, a simple bluff?
Fortunately, the rag in Jake's mouth was thick enough to choke his curses.
"Wait," said Gidoin, his hand on the Dutchman's coat. "Perhaps I'm being too hasty."
There was no need for van Clynne to conceal a smile at this late victory — the view of the pitching waves had quite vanquished any trace of optimism from his face. In fact, he was starting to feel a little woozy — Dutch courage could only travel so far.
"Are you all right?" the captain asked.
"Yes, yes," said van Clynne, sinking against the barrels.
The sailors recognized the problem and started smirking among themselves. Gidoin tapped his foot impatiently, wondering how England would ever conquer the damn colonies with men such as the fat Dutchman in its employ.
Jake did nothing, though this was not precisely his wish.
"I wonder," van Clynne asked, "would it be possible to get something to wet my thirst?"
"Seaman — a cup of water," said the captain.
"No, not water. Anything but water," answered van Clynne.
"Not used to being on a ship, are you?" said McRae, glad that the Dutchman's weakness had been so easily discovered.
"The sea is a dreadful place."
"We were discussing who would have custody of this prisoner," said Gidoin.
"You can have him," said van Clynne.
"What?"
"Take him, he's yours."
Jake's reaction could not be properly chronicled if we had eight hundred pages. Gidoin's was somewhat less severe, though the word "shocked" does not quite convey the half of it. But as he was about to question the Dutchman further, he was interrupted by miscellaneous shouts and whistles and piping and perhaps even an orchestra of drums welcoming a new man aboard ship — Major Dr. Harland Keen.
-Chapter Thirty-seven-
Wherein, Squire van Clynne's plot blows up.
Was the prodigal greeted with such shouts of joy as van Clynne received from Keen? Did Columbus respond with greater happiness as the king and queen of Spain met him at the dock?
Without question. Nor did van Clynne seem willing to put a single metaphor to the test. His body drooped, his arms hung down as he leaned back, practically draping over the nearest salt keg.
Jake's fury simmered. He did not know that van Clynne and the doctor were previously acquainted, and could conjure no explanation for the Dutchman's sudden and obvious — though as yet unstated — capitulation. Nor could he see, from his vantage, that van Clynne's pipe was not quite dangling aimlessly. For the good Dutchman had indeed come aboard with a plan that involved more than mere bluff — he'd fashioned a bomb inside the salt barrel where he was sitting, and was endeavoring to light it.
"Well, is not this my old acquaintance Squire van Clynne?" said Keen. "What a coincidence!"
"Yes, yes," said the Dutchman, fumbling to light the fuse without being detected. Why was nothing ever where it was supposed to be?
"You're looking quite pale, my friend. I hope you've recovered from my blood treatment."
"Superbly," said van Clynne. Worried that Keen would see what he was doing, he turned his head up to attend to him — and silently cursed as the pipe slipped from his hand.
"What are these barrels?" asked the doctor, pointing the eagle-handle of his walking stick. He had not replaced his hat, but otherwise looked as fine and fresh as the day he strode off the ship into the New World.
"I found my salt."
"Ah, very good, very good," said Keen. To this point, the British agent had ignored all the others, playing his moment of triumph for all the drama he could squeeze from it. In truth, the doctor had a thespian streak that would have impressed even Mr. Jonson.
"You are Gidoin, I assume," said Keen when he finally turned to the captain. The doctor knocked his stick once on the deck for emphasis, and then consulted one of his watches, as if concerned about the time.
If Gidoin had taken an immediate dislike to van Clynne, his feelings toward Keen were even worse. "My name is Captain John Lewis Gidoin, master of this ship," he replied tightly. "And whom have I had the pleasure to meet?"
Keen reached into his vest and retrieved his ruby-hilted knife — and with a sharp flick of his wrist, sent it sailing to the deck between the captain's feet. "You will do precisely as I order you to."
Gidoin froze. While he did not know all that the blade implied, he realized from conversations with his father, a former admiral, that it was a signifier for the Secret Department attached directly to the king, and that its bearers were not to be jostled with. In the least.
Reacting to the knife, two of Gidoin's marines took a menacing step toward Keen. The captain immediately commanded them to stop — though the withering glare from the doctor might have accomplished the same on its own.
"What do you want?"
"The Dutchman and the other man are my prisoners," said Keen. "I require a proper boat. I had to induce a few of the rabble to get myself out here, and I fear they may be unreliable."
Gidoin looked over at van Clynne, who had gone to his hands and knees in order to retrieve the pipe — and use it to light the fuse. He was just about to grab it when one of the marines, acting at McRae's nod, took hold of his coat and hauled him to his feet.
"Unhand me," blustered van Clynne. "Captain — arrest that man," he shouted, pointing at Keen. "He claims to be a British operative, but he is only a thief. He stole my money, under the pretense that I was a traitor."
"It was no pretense," said Keen, walking to Jake and ignoring van Clynne's continued protests. "General Bacon took an interest in you," he told the trussed spy. "He mentioned something about a dinner appointment he hoped you would keep. I wonder if that meant he wanted you returned alive?"
Jake's eyes displayed no emotion, save fierce hate.
"Alas, it's too much bother," said Keen. "Hang him quickly."
Finally, something the sailors agreed with. They hopped like children at a May Fair to comply.
The reader will realize that the disguised Private Martin has quite gotten lost in the recent chain of events, so rapidly progressing. For he has followed the foot-soldier's motto: "When in doubt, keep your head down."
Or mo
re specifically, duck behind the salt barrels and pray that no one sees you.
There is no underestimating the ingenuity of a Connecticut man, nor can his initiative under fire be truly assayed until the moment in question. Martin saw the pipe on the deck boards and realized that General van Clynne was no longer in a position to light the fuse. He therefore came to the fore, crawling on his hands and knees while the sailors took up Jake's rope and the rest of the ship's company turned to watch the entertainment proceed.
"I think you should reconsider," van Clynne said, producing his own ruby-topped knife for the bewildered master of the Richmond. "I, too, am a member of the Secret Department, and Mr. Gibbs is my prisoner. General Bacon will be very angry when I tell him what you've done."
"You will not live to tell him," answered Keen curtly. "Pull him up!"
Jake felt the pressure on his neck and decided to make one last, desperate try at freedom, coiling his legs beneath him and gasping for a breath. As the sailors prepared to give the first pull, he bolted upright, tensing his shoulder muscles and leaning against the rope, so that his neck became a swivel. It was an awful, wrenching motion, but it allowed him to kick his boots against the mast and swing back into the sailors, sending them into a tumble. The rest of the ship's company erupted with laughter.
Lieutenant McRae began shouting at the men; Gidoin cursed; a marine grabbed Jake from the deck where he had fallen and yanked him upright.
Van Clynne, his guards distracted by Jake, took a sniff at the air and made a perfect dive into the oak boards, landing at Gidoin's boots.
All eyes turned toward him.
"What the hell are you doing?" thundered the ship's captain.
At that moment, the disguised salt keg exploded with a loud and very spicy bang.
Not even Homer could describe the scene that followed with proper accuracy. Martin, aware that the fuse was very short, had taken his chance to dive overboard the moment van Clynne fell. The explosion threw splinters and salt in a large circle, small cakes of the mineral acting much the same as pieces of shot. Keen was bowled over by a barrel lid, and knocked unconscious to the deck. Gidoin escaped serious injury, but was blown against a spar and also knocked unconscious. And Jake — ?
Jake would have been struck through the heart by several pounds worth of exploding salt were it not for the marine who had manhandled him. The unfortunate redcoat acted as a human shield; in an instant, the back of his coat turned a much darker shade of red.
Now was Claus van Clynne's greatest moment. He had chosen his trajectory not merely to escape the impact of the explosion, but to be in a position to grasp the red-handled knife Keen had thrown down earlier. Rocks were still flying through the air as he rolled to his feet with his blade in his right hand and Keen's in his left. He reached Jake and sliced through the hanging rope with a bold stroke of his right hand, while plunging his left into a marine's belly. Van Clynne then hauled Jake's body upon his shoulder and courageously proceeded to the side of the ship, where he cursed King George III in a loud and bold voice, ignoring the pistols and cutlasses of the crew. Flashing his small dagger, he took a manrope between his teeth and slid gently to the boat where Martin was already waiting, making good their escape.
At least, that was the story the Dutchman would tell upon reaching shore. From Jake's point of view, the action proceeded in somewhat different fashion:
Tossed to the deck with no warning, the patriot managed just barely to stay conscious. The blast severed the halter rope, though its long strand remained attached to his neck. His arms and legs were still tightly bound, and he could not walk freely. The explosion had rocked the ship severely, and Jake found himself able to roll and crawl toward the fallen van Clynne and McRae. Spotting Keen's ruby knife in the smoke was not difficult, but pulling it from the wood — the doctor's throw had buried the sharp blade nearly to the hilt — took all his strength, and he worked it back and forth for what seemed like forever.
Fortunately, the crew members who were not wounded by the explosion immediately set to saving the ship, which listed severely to port. All manner of men ran back and forth around him. Smoke from two small fires filled the air, and the general din was rent by several wretches whose limbs had been severed by the blast. This was more than enough distraction for Jake, who finally succeeded in pulling the knife from the wood.
He had to twist to slice the rope around his hands, but eventually sawed himself free. As he pulled himself up, Jake felt a sharp tug on his neck and he fell backwards on the deck. Twisting around, he saw that McRae had grabbed the severed end of what was to have been his death rope and tied it around his waist.
The lieutenant held the rope with one hand. His other flashed a thick, heavy cutlass.
"The one consistency in everyone's story is that you are a damnable traitor and a rebel," said McRae, whose cocked hat had been knocked crossways by the explosion but was otherwise unharmed. "I shall take great pride in ending your life."
"And I yours," said Jake, managing to grab the rope as McRae tugged. He lurched forward even so, and was just able to force himself sideways, escaping the swing of the blade.
A naval cutlass is a heavy weapon created for hacking an opponent to bits. It is unmerciful in its blows, its weight multiplying the momentum several fold. But that advantage brings a problem to the man using it, for it lacks the finesse of a lighter sword.
McRae had used a cutlass to maim his share of opponents, but in his enthusiasm now found his slashes somewhat haphazard. Still tethered, Jake was able to retreat to a point where he could use a large, upended sea chest as a barrier between them. When McRae charged to the right, Jake slipped quickly to the left, and vice versa.
As the lieutenant took his charges, Jake worked more and more slack between his neck and the rope in his hand. This was naturally very dangerous, as it shortened the distance between the two men. But it also allowed him enough room to slip the thin but sharp blade of the Secret Department against the rope without McRae seeing. In a wink, the blade cut through.
Jake didn't let on. Instead, he waited while McRae collected himself for another lunge. As the British officer picked up his cutlass, Jake let go of the rope and dove to the right, falling below McRae's outstretched arm. The sword sailed down, slamming into the deck; in the next moment Jake was tumbling head over barefooted heels, kicking upward as he passed.
He aimed for McRae's face but missed. He hit the officer's hand instead, which was good enough — the smack sent the cutlass flying to the deck, and it slid away as the ship rolled.
McRae was too maddened to retreat. Instead, he reached to his belt for a knife — then fell forward, pulled off balance by van Clynne, who had grabbed his ankle from the deck nearby. Jake's knife quickly put an end to the English officer's career. "Over the side," the patriot shouted as he pulled his Dutch companion to his feet.
"Easy for you to say," grumbled van Clynne, who wobbled from obstruction to obstruction before reaching the rail. There, one look at the deep blue water — the very deep blue water — and its rolling waves was enough to give him pause for reflection.
The fire was now almost under control. While sailors were still rushing around, some of the marine guards had appeared on deck with their muskets armed. One fired in the general direction of van Clynne, which cured his contemplative mood. He lifted a foot tentatively — then felt himself flying toward the dark, hideous waves, propelled by a quick shove from Jake.
-Chapter Thirty-eight-
Wherein, the river proves more crowded than expected.
There are no good fuses to be found any more. The first business of Congress once peace is established ought to be the propagation of proper fuses. Imagine if the situation had been dire."
"I can't imagine it more dire," said Jake, working his long oar fiercely. He and Martin had hauled van Clynne aboard the whaleboat and were now rowing furiously up river, away from the Richmond. At any moment he expected the frigate to send a broadside their way, or launch
boats in pursuit. Their comparatively empty boat rode high in the water, except at the stern where the Dutchman was stationed by the tiller.
"You were never in any danger," replied van Clynne. He guided the craft with one hand, using the other to clear the light rain from his face. As proper steering demanded he look at the water, the boat's course tended to wander. "We were ready to take you off at any moment. When Claus van Clynne and his men appear on a scene, you may rest easy."
"Turn the tiller to the right! Your right!" said Jake. "I will admit that things are always interesting when you are involved," he added, conscious that despite the thick bruise on his neck, the Dutchman had indeed saved his life. "For the moment, we'd better concentrate on making our escape."
"You are rowing wonderfully. The Richmond has been severely hampered by my charge, and is in no position to harry us further. I envision a long period in the repair shed for her. They may even take her out to sea and shoot her, as is done with a horse."
Van Clynne had no sooner made this prediction than the air was rent by a dozen or more cannon. Fortunately, the ship was listing severely and could not be maneuvered for a proper aim. Only one ball came close enough to send a spray of water near them. Jake and Martin nonetheless pushed their oars with renewed vigor.
"How many troops did Old Put send to the shore with you?" Jake asked van Clynne.
"Well, none, exactly."
"None?"
Van Clynne's answer was drowned by the reverberation of a second cannonade. The gunners had compensated somewhat for their ship's handicaps, and the whaleboat took some water from the resulting waves.
"Has Putnam sent his entire army to watch the chain?" Jake asked.
"If the truth be told, I never reached the general," said van Clynne. "I was waylaid by that scoundrel Keen, who tortured me nearly to death."
