The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  Even as Jake began to curse the redcoats who had trapped him, his salvation was at hand. Van Clynne and his men had overwhelmed a marine position and pressed their attack. The Dutchman grabbed an unfired British musket and pushed his way through the trees, grumbling and grousing like a bear whose hibernation had been interrupted. This drew the attention of a good portion of the force, and left the Connecticut men free to engage in a classic out-flanking maneuver.

  The troops saw the gap open in the defenses and rushed it, and with a shout the fight erupted into hand-to-hand combat. The marines who had been sniping at Jake turned to hold down their flank, and the patriot spy ran forward, grabbing one of the lobster-coats by the neck as he reached for a new cartridge.

  The Briton fell back against the rocks. The cloth of the cravat and collar he wore around his neck dampened some of the fierce force in Jake's fingers, but no coat would protect against the weight of his blows. As the marine continued to struggle, Jake grabbed his fallen musket and slapped him in the mouth with its stock; a more substantial blow to the forehead finished the struggle.

  The Connecticut men in the meantime had begun rolling up the flank, sending the British into a confused panic northwards. There were shouts from the other side of the creek, and calls further inland as reinforcements began to take tentative steps toward a counterattack. But the growing night and the ferocity of the assault, as well as the woods, made the situation chaotic enough that a rally was impossible, and the Americans turned to mop up the stragglers.

  Van Clynne, meanwhile, was operating more or less on his own, by now well west of the main troop. After discharging the Brown Bess musket into a receptive enemy body, he fell back on his favorite weapon, the tomahawk. The squire was as good with the hatchet as any woodsman alive, and had more than held his own during competitions with Indian companions, where a good showing tended to lower the price of proffered beaver pelts.

  His showing now was applauded by a Connecticut soldier who found himself hard-pressed by a pair of marines. Van Clynne's two axes made their marks in the oppressors' foreheads; Cain was not sent upon the land with a grosser sign of his perfidy.

  But as the Dutchman advanced to retrieve his weapons, he was confronted by a marine sergeant, sword in hand. Van Clynne just managed to grab one of the hatchets and hold it up in defense; the sergeant's blade glanced off the blade head with a sharp clang. His weapon was severely dented, but the Dutchman was left in a worse position — the force of the blow knocked the tomahawk from his hand.

  "I can tell by your breath that you've been drinking rum," declared van Clynne loudly. "And cheap rum at that."

  "I'll send you to hell," answered the sergeant, launching the sword in a forward parry. The Dutchman was able to avoid it, thanks to the shadows and a young stripling tree he let fly into his attacker's face.

  "Really, sir," said van Clynne as the marine whirled back, "I would have expected a bolder threat from a member of the British marines. Who is your commanding officer?"

  While his patter was completely characteristic, it was not without purpose. The Dutchman meant to keep the swordsman off balance and with any luck flustered until help arrived or a weapon presented itself. He thus inquired into the sorry state of the British armed forces, desiring to know why they were equipped with swords that could not hack out a few paltry weeds.

  The sergeant spent several strong blows against the bushes between them trying to disprove this theory. Van Clynne found it expedient to retreat from each until at last his path was blocked by a large rock.

  Even with the light fading, the glimmer of the British sergeant's eyes were unmistakable. The Dutchman was an inviting target; the most difficult task was deciding which limb to sever first.

  The sergeant drew the sword over his shoulder, aiming straight for van Clynne's tongue.

  "Perhaps, sir, we can negotiate a cease-fire," suggested the Dutchman.

  The smirk on the sergeant's face changed to a grotesque death mask, blood spurting from a gash in his neck.

  The rock van Clynne had backed up against was the same outcropping used earlier by a marine as cover against Jake's assault, and the patriot spy had found himself in the vicinity when the Dutchman began his commentary.

  Those complaints were now renewed with great vigor, van Clynne concluding that, if the present army and navy were to have fought against the Netherlands for control of New Amsterdam, the lands here would still be Dutch and there would be no need for the Revolution.

  "Think of it this way," suggested Jake, cleaning off his thin assassin's blade. "If you were alive then, you'd be dead."

  "That is a most slippery form of logic, sir," declared van Clynne. "I believe it pure sophistry, and denounced specifically by St. Thomas. A live man cannot be dead, especially if he is Dutch."

  "You're welcome," said Jake sarcastically.

  "I was indeed about to thank you," said van Clynne. "You saved me a certain amount of exertion, though I would have defeated the heathen dog in due course."

  "By talking him to death?"

  "I would have thought by now, my friend, that you understood the brilliant subtlety of Dutch battle tactics."

  Their conference was interrupted by Private Martin's arrival.

  "All present and accounted for, sir," declared the private. "We've a few nicks and bruises, but no bullet holes."

  The main British force had marched further inland and was fighting in the hilly area above, between the village and the creek, where it had met militia and Putnam's regulars. They were undoubtedly so preoccupied that an assault from their rear would wipe them out, but Jake had other priorities.

  "Which way to our friend Green's?" he asked van Clynne.

  "I believe that is his abode yonder," said van Clynne, pointing toward the settlement on the riverbank. "There should be a boat or two in the yard. If you knock on his door — "

  "No time," said Jake. "Martin and I will find a boat. You take the soldiers and continue north across the creek. Advance up the shoreline as quickly as possible. Send a man to Fort Independence and tell them to direct snipers to the chain."

  "Begging your pardon, sir," asked Martin, "but if the Dependence is on the river, won't we have a difficult time in our boat?"

  "I wouldn't be surprised."

  For a stretch of land under violent attack, the shoreline was remarkably peaceful. In truth, the few local inhabitants had wisely fled for their lives. With the British marines vanquished, Jake and Private Martin had their pick of the vessels beached along the cove.

  Their pick of one, that is, which was perched precariously on a group of rocks overlooking the water. It was the only craft in sight, if one excepts the British whale-boats, which were too large for them to maneuver successfully, and the equally impractical galley well offshore.

  As it happened, they would have chosen the boat even among a million others. For the craft in question was a birch bark canoe.

  Were there more time to praise the construction of this genre of vessel, several pages could be filled regarding the sturdiness of the hull and the effectiveness of the very lightweight structure, which made the boat highly maneuverable. Jake lifted it without Martin's help and launched it immediately into the river, where the doughty private quickly joined him. The two men pushed their paddles into the water and the craft seemed to jump beneath them, hurrying northward as if its Indian maker had bestowed a supernatural spirit within its ribs.

  The weak fires ashore, hampered by the drizzle, were now the only source of illumination. Behind them to the west, fierce Bear Mountain growled in the wet darkness, throwing fits and shadows across the channel as they broke into the open water.

  A brilliant red and yellow flash lit the river above them, and the waves reverberated with the sound of the Dependence's 32-pound cannon unleashing an awesome missile. The round iron ball groaned and whistled as it rent the air, and for a moment even Jake feared that the cannon had been fired at them. The dull thud of the projectile crashing harml
essly against rock and mud was not so much a reprieve as a warning; they had a long way to go before fulfilling their mission.

  Fortunately, the British vessel seemed to be concentrating on Fort Independence and was busy maneuvering at the mouth of the creek below it, seeking to draw as much attention as possible. The current and the rising wind made it difficult for the galley to stay in position to fire.

  It also made it extremely difficult for Jake and Private Martin to paddle upstream, as the rain now started to pick at their faces like a swarm of angry bees.

  "Pace yourself with long strokes," Jake instructed his bowman. "Lean against the left side of the canoe and I'll compensate back here."

  Martin did not answer, but Jake noticed a better pull. He hoped that the heavily laden bomb canoe would find the going several times as difficult.

  Their small boat shook with the reflected reverberation of another round from the Dependence. Jake looked up and realized that the vessel was considerably closer to them than he had thought — and in fact was speeding south on a collision course with their canoe.

  "Stroke, Martin, stroke!" commanded Jake, going at the water like a grave digger in the last moment before Armageddon.

  The private responded not only with strong strokes, but with a cheery hum meant to revive his sagging spirits.

  The song, naturally enough, was "Yankee Doodle."

  Before Jake could order the private to keep quiet in hopes the enemy might miss them, an alarm rose on the Dependence. As a swivel was manned and aimed in their direction, Jake took up the chorus of the song — and bent hard over the canoe, tucking the boat closer to the rocky shore.

  The Dependence, which had been changing position to cover the force that seemed to be under attack at the cove, came on strong. But Jake managed to slip the canoe to the side, escaping the collision and clearing the long arms of the sweeping oars.

  "Fire, damn you!" shouted the master of the galley, barely ten yards away. "Sink that infernal boat and its blasted singing!"

  -Chapter Forty-one-

  Wherein, the chase proceeds in the dark currents of the North River, and even darker events transpire on shore.

  Jake's guess about the effects of the wind and current on the bomb canoe was correct. Towed behind an ordinary dugout canoe manned by Busch and the sailor he had recruited on the Richmond, its bow was a heavy anchor. The craft kept sliding against its tow rope, trying to change direction; it was a struggle to make any progress at all.

  Nonetheless, they kept at it. Busch's determined example rallied the hulking sailor at the rear of the canoe. The man, whom the ranger captain had chosen largely for the size of his shoulders and chest, began now to pay back the faith shown in him. A lull in the wind presented an opening, and they began a steady climb against the passion of the water. The chain, stretched across its wooden logs, lay ahead; at this slow but steady pace, it would take no more than a few minutes to reach.

  "Come now," said Busch aloud to the sailor behind him. "There's a thousand guineas' reward waiting if we bull the rebels' iron in half."

  "Why didn't you say so earlier!" exclaimed the sailor, redoubling his efforts.

  At least one subject of His Majesty King George III did not need any hint of pecuniary reward to fire his energy on this dark night. Major Dr. Harland Keen had all the motivation he needed—indeed, one might say he was over-motivated, with a surfeit of evil energy burning at the core of his twisted soul.

  The blast of van Clynne's salt barrel had knocked Keen against one of the ship's masts with such force that he lay unconscious on the deck for several minutes. During that time, the rebels escaped and the Richmond's crew went about the business of securing the vessel with no attention to him. His prostrate body was treated much as a broken and discarded spar might have been; indeed, the lumber might have received more concern, as it would have potentially played some role in the operation of the ship.

  There were many wounded men aboard, but the victim whose injuries were most important was the ship herself. She leaned badly to port, where the explosion had sent a jagged finger downward to yank at the keel, cracking the boards badly enough to allow water to flood the lower gun deck. The sailors worked madly to seal this breach, which was as severe and deadly as any inflicted by a warship in battle.

  While they were at least not subject to bombardment as they worked, the circumstances of the blast, the peculiar shape of the resulting wound, and the disruptive effect on the boat's entire structure presented problems that would have challenged even Admiral Drake's hand-picked and battle-hardened crew on the Golden Hind. The approaching darkness and gathering storm clouds, which kicked up the wind and the river's waves, added to their difficulties. The few ill-aimed rounds they threw at the rebels were mere tokens, and the small force they sent in the cutter was the most Captain Gidoin could spare to preserve British honor without losing his chances of preserving his ship.

  The Richmond had been ripped from her anchors by the blast, and drifted for some time before she could be brought fully under control. The vessel was not the biggest in the British fleet, nor the strongest, but still she had her pride. With great creaks and groans she pulled her timbers together, aided by the ministrations of her retainers. She had been well engineered and manufactured; her breeding finally won out over the grievous hurt that had been inflicted.

  By the time Keen had regained enough of his senses to push himself upright on the deck and wipe his brow with his hand, the master of the Richmond felt reasonably sure his ship would survive. But several more hours of close work remained before it could proceed south to New York City and permanent repairs.

  Keen had no desire to go with her, much less help tend the wounded around him, though since he was a doctor such might be considered his moral duty. His entire concern was the Dutchman, who had managed to outwit him.

  Keen's enmity for the squire reached apocalyptic proportions, and incited in him a positively artistic hate. He saw himself flaying van Clynne alive while turning him on a spit, the fire fueled by the oozing strips of human fat. He envisioned the construction of an elaborate apparatus that would sustain the squire's heart while his legs and arms were sawed off. He foresaw all manner of hideous tortures that would have put the storied Borgias to shame.

  "I will have a boat," he said to Captain Gidoin once he recovered. The ship's master started to object, but the unworldly look in Keen's eyes warned him off. He quickly gave the order to have the major rowed ashore, even though he could ill afford to spare the men.

  Keen stood in the bow of the small boat as it was rowed toward the spot on shore where he had left his carriage. There was an immediate obstacle to his plans for revenge — he had no idea where van Clynne was.

  He could, however, make certain assumptions, the most important being that the Dutchman would endeavor to thwart the operation against the chain. To do so, he would undoubtedly enlist the assistance of the main American forces in the area, under General Putnam. Putnam, or one of his officers, would therefore know of his whereabouts.

  Keen had observed that van Clynne was steadfastly loyal to his underlings — he had risked a great deal to save this Gibbs. How much more would he do to rescue the pretty young Miss McGuiness, bundled in the rear of Keen's carriage? Could she not be used to lure him to his fate?

  Rose did not answer when the doctor put the question to her. This was largely due to the fact that she was still unconscious; the Chinese sleeping concoction he had administered before setting off to the Richmond would render her senseless for many hours yet.

  The doctor took a lingering look at her body, limp and untrussed on the seat. Her legs were spread carelessly and she looked for all the world like a garden nymph, caught asleep beneath a lilac bush.

  With great resolve, Keen forced himself to concentrate on his goal of revenge and closed the door to the coach. Without a clear plan yet, he began driving north toward Marshad's cottage; ruined as it was, it was the only spot in the area he knew.


  Indeed, his ignorance of the country now worked against him. On his journey from New York he had relied exclusively on the knowledge of his driver. It was easy enough to find the river from the shore; one kept trying roads that headed west until it was reached. But finding Marshad's, especially in the growing darkness, was another story entirely.

  And so the reader will not wonder that Keen was soon lost, and he realized he must enlist some native as a guide. This person could then be put to a second use — he would be dispatched to Putnam's headquarters, and told to find van Clynne.

  Keen did not construct this scenario all at once; indeed, it took his fevered mind nearly a half hour's worth of travel before he conceded to himself that he was indeed lost. By that point, the chances of haphazardly coming across someone who would know the way to Marshad's — indeed, the chances of coming across anyone — were very limited. He therefore decided that he must stop at some inn or similar establishment and enlist aid there.

  The inn he happened on was Prisco's.

  Keen's clothes had been rent in the blast, and his face covered with bruises. But a few daubs of paint on his forehead and a fresh jacket — he chose brown, mindful of van Clynne's earlier remarks on local fashion — restored some dash to his appearance; when he walked into the inn he looked no worse than most of the patrons. Indeed, he outshone them all, as this was a particularly slow evening for the Prisco establishment — its only customers were the two uncommunicative checkers-playing gentlemen Jake had met earlier.

  Keen gave the proprietor a polite smile when he greeted him at the threshold, and allowed himself to be shown to a Windsor-style chair that stood in front of a round hickory table arm's length from the fire. Prisco allowed as how he had some very fine rabbit stew left in the kitchen; Keen nodded and asked for some Madeira with which to wash it down. The order was taken up cheerfully —the good keeper made a nice profit on his wine sales.