The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  The crew endeavored to comply. But the swirling riptides made it difficult to swing around quickly, and suddenly a loud crash signaled yet another problem — the keel had struck against a submerged sandbar, leaving the Dependence snagged in an even more difficult position than before. The rock throwers quickly realized the ship's plight, and responded with a hurrah — and a fresh round of projectiles.

  As their confidence grew, van Clynne's troops steadily increased the caliber of their stones. Lieutenant Clark's curses reached a new fervor as he urged his men to row themselves off the rocks and retreat. The river roiled with fresh and heavy stones, and for a moment it appeared the great British terror of the Hudson was about to meet her doom.

  Surely that would have been the case had the troop of American soldiers — two full companies of men, under the personal direction of Major General Israel Putnam himself — been able to fight their way past the last marines and rangers in a few minutes' less time. Their shouts as they reached the shore added to the confusion, and Clark felt a sinking sensation in his stomach he had never experienced while wearing the king's coat of service in the navy. But a roar from his 32-pounder succeeded in rallying his spirits; even more importantly, it helped loosen the ship from its snare.

  "All hands — get us the hell out of here!" yelled the lieutenant, not caring how ignoble his words would sound to posterity. "Get us the hell out of here!"

  -Chapter Forty-five-

  Wherein, the Apocalypse arrives.

  Free of the bomb canoe, Jake took two immense strokes and found himself back at the floating iron barrier. He climbed atop, pausing to cough as much of the river water from his lungs as possible.

  Though the thunder and lightning had faded, cannon fire on shore and from the Dependence took up the slack. Pandemonium echoed around him, the gunshots joined by shouts and cries from the wounded. No longer hampered by the rain, fires broke out with vengeance all along the river below. It seemed as if he had swum from the Hudson directly to the mouth of the river Lethe at Hades' gate.

  The bomb canoe was floating downstream, carried by the current. Jake had no idea whether it was still close enough to damage the chain if it exploded; indeed, he had no idea how long it would be before the bomb went off. Both matters were out of his hands — his best course now was to run like hell for the shore.

  Under any circumstance, running along the chain, with its floats moving back and forth with the waves, would have been a daunting if not impossible task. Given the churning of the river due to the storm and Jake's tired and bruised condition, however, it was not even conceivable. He took one step and fell flat on his face, dropping his arms barely in time to break his fall. Groping forward, he managed to reach the end of one float and climb to another. He made the next one before slipping again, this time hitting his chin on the heaving iron. River water filled his mouth and he began coughing so hard he fell over. Some action of the river or the storm punched a link up into his ribs so severely that he nearly rebounded into the air. He began flailing about, as if under attack from some monstrous creature of the deep. For a moment, blinded by the pounding of the water into his face, Jake thought he saw the chain rise up and tangle itself around him, as if it were a giant ray or eel, trying to strangle him.

  The monster Despair, more powerful by far than any denizen of the river or sea, loomed at his back, its icy grip pinching the strained muscles in Jake's neck. With a start, the patriot realized he had slipped off the logs and was completely under water.

  He opened his good eye and thought he saw two figures below him, worm-eaten corpses with their arms extended to him, hair flowing in the current and dresses billowing with the river's movement. He muscled every last ounce of strength into his arms and pushed for the surface, kicked his legs and struck his arm on one of the barrier's supports; despite the pain, he used it for leverage and lurched away.

  And then in a second the storm vanished completely, the wind finally pushing the clouds so hard against the surrounding mountains that they were drained of their liquid in one last torrent, and had nothing left. The Hudson in that brief moment went calm as glass, and Jake made strong progress toward shore.

  Free of the chain, free of the monsters of his imagination, the patriot saw the dark outline of St. Anthony's looming overhead. In that instant it turned from demon to protector, a natural barrier that helped the Americans form their line against the British tyrants. The river and her eddies helped now, with a current that pushed him toward land. Jake felt a sudden burst of speed, and as he stroked for the riverbank shook his head clear of the mucus that had accumulated during his struggle.

  And then the Hudson was lit by a fireball unseen since the Earth's creation.

  The water was rent in two. Huge waves welled up in a massive tide, pushed by a force several times that of the greatest Caribbean hurricane. The air itself turned hot from the friction of the blast, rushing against the shore like the hard blade of a carpenter's plane, taking with it whole trees and immense boulders, while burning the unprotected flesh from men's faces. Jake was propelled a hundred yards directly upstream, and then sucked back by the rebounding waves. He was tossed like a cloth sack against the chain, landing directly atop a float.

  The patriot barrier shook with the force of the blow, rebounding up and down all across its length as the strong rope of a hammock under the weight of a child jumping on it. But like such a rope, the boundary held — whether because of superior design and manufacture, some trick of the river's reflection, or even Providence herself, the reader may take his pick. An engineer would realize the orientation of the chain was such that it actually rode much of the shock wave, which was largely wasted in the open air.

  Even so, the iron and logs groaned so loudly that Jake's first thought was that he had failed. He lay on his back against the logs for a long moment, dark dread once again filling his head. But he soon realized the wood below him was intact, and creaking against its fellows; he sat up and began shouting insane hosannas as if he had been deposited directly into the balmy waters of the Mighty Jordan, en route to heaven.

  -Chapter Forty-six-

  Wherein, slight complications mar the otherwise well-deserved joy of the patriot forces.

  Old Put pushed his stocky torso from the ground. Frowning, he retrieved his hat from the bush where it had been blown by the shock of the bomb canoe's blast just upriver. The cocked hat had been fatally bruised; one fold had been torn halfway through and the other permanently folded so that it hung down over his face. He tossed it aside and began shouting at his men to look alive, to take up their positions, to finish rounding up their prisoners and rout any other Tory or Briton who dared darken the surrounding woods with his presence.

  General Putnam is among the most esteemed of American leaders, and certainly one of the oldest; while he appeared as something of a rooster strutting around the barnyard barking orders, still his commands were received with the alacrity one expects from soldiers responding out of respect for the man as well as the rank.

  Except from the Connecticut men, who looked to their own general for direction.

  "Begging your pardon, sir," said one of the privates, pointing to their adopted leader. "But General van Clynne has taken us under his command, and as he is of captain-general rank with a surfeit of clusters, we answer to him, sir."

  "Captain-general? Clusters?" scowled Old Put. "When did Congress establish such a ridiculous rank?"

  "It is a hereditary title from the Dutch, sir," said van Clynne quickly, "one which I seldom invoke except under the most dire circumstances, with which we were faced."

  The Dutchman stepped forward and reached up to doff his hat. As it had been blown off his head, he came up empty-handed, but bowed nonetheless.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Putnam.

  "Surely Miss McGuiness told you about me when she arrived," said van Clynne. "She is a stubborn young woman, sir, but you must make allowances for her; her heart is that of a true p
atriot."

  "What Miss McGuiness? What in damnation are you talking about? Speak clearly and quickly, or I’ll have you flogged."

  "Rose McGuiness. Didn't she alert you to the plot against the chain?"

  "What plot?"

  The general could not have realized how grave a mistake the question was, for it invited the Dutchman to launch into a full narrative of the night's adventures. Despite Old Put's constant exhortations to get to the point, van Clynne embroidered a lengthy tale of destruction and woe — with himself, naturally, at the center of it.

  The general, tiring of the discourse and suspicious of the Dutchman, would have had him slapped in irons, except for the mention of Jake Gibbs's name.

  "Jake is involved in this?"

  "After a fashion, sir, after a fashion. We are a team, as it were."

  Putnam was spared further details by the timely arrival of Jane, who rode astride the bareback horse much as a young lad would have. She dismounted in a flash, her heavy woolen cloak swirling around to reveal her homespun skirts — all soaked as badly as any shirt of Job's.

  To Claus van Clynne, this was the most beautiful sight imaginable, the swish of a tulip petal loosened by the wind.

  "My sweet Jane!"

  "Claus!"

  The two dear hearts came together with a crash that rivaled the recent explosion. General Putnam was about to take the opportunity to attend to more important matters, when Jane broke free of her lover's grasp and stopped him.

  "General, please — I've ridden nearly the whole night to find you. A British spy has taken a young servant girl named Rose McGuiness hostage. She must be rescued — Claus, the man's name is Dr. Keen; he says you're to come to Marshad's cottage without any soldiers, or he'll kill Rose straight away. And then he'll start in on Uncle."

  While van Clynne was confronting this new twist, his erstwhile partner was basking in the sweet calm that victory brings. Triumph makes all manner of injuries light nuisances, easily dismissed. The river was illuminated by fresh watch fires across the way; overhead, the stars fought through the fading clouds and glittered with all their might. Bear Mountain seemed to hunch his shoulders and proclaim his majesty, the Hudson lapping at his feet with a gentle snicker.

  Jake might have been forgiven if, as he sat cross-legged, still half in the water, he thought this glorious show of Nature was all for his benefit. His exertions had left him near drunk with the afterglow of his body's fiery humors. The knife wound in his hip had stopped bleeding; his other wounds and bruises drifted away like memories of lost bets.

  Some hoarse shouts nearby quickly sobered him. The patrolling whaleboat had been literally blown to splinters, and its soldiers were now clinging to the rocking chain as if it were a life raft.

  "Make your way towards me," shouted Jake, gingerly going out to help them. The British sailor and one of their comrades had been lost in the confusion, but otherwise their injuries were light.

  Jake pointed them back to shore and helped the stragglers. As the way became easier, his thoughts turned to his mission to Albany; he must leave tonight if he were to reach General Schuyler before his deadline. He also thought of the woman he had left there some weeks before, Sarah Thomas. She would welcome him gladly when he arrived.

  Distracted by her image in his brain, he did not notice the man with the rifle leveled at the shivering regulars who had reached shore ahead of him.

  "Stand back," said the old man, his shoulders against the rocky crag on the narrow bank. "Stand back or I'll kill you all."

  Jake knew who he must be at once.

  "Mr. Busch — don't shoot at us. We're on your side."

  "Side? What side?"

  "The patriot side," said Jake.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. You are all trespassing on my land."

  They outnumbered him, and if they rushed him would surely overcome him. The rifle was loaded though, and even in the dim light he surely would not miss hitting someone.

  "We've come to try and help you find your daughter," offered Jake. "We heard she was lost."

  "Annie? Yes, I cannot seem to find her. She and John have been missing since supper. It's John — the boy always gets into trouble. He is a rebellious scoundrel — if I told him to walk he would run."

  "Mr. Busch, please put the gun down," said Jake, taking a step forward. His injured feet made him wince with pain, but at least his eye had opened and he could see normally. "It'll only scare your daughter when we find her."

  The old man looked down at the weapon in his hands, as if confused at how it had gotten there. His attention was turned long enough for Jake to spring at him. But the gun was surrendered meekly.

  "My daughter?" asked the elder Busch.

  "She's gone. She died in the river. John, too."

  "John, too?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The old man's face erupted with tears at the fate of his family, whether for the first or last time, neither Jake nor anyone else could tell.

  In his defense, Van Clynne felt it was only fair to point out to sweet Jane that had this Rose followed his directions as to the proper path to take, she would not be in her current predicament. “This is what comes of questioning a Dutchman's counsel, my pumpkin."

  "Claus, you have to rescue Rose," said Jane. "You must."

  "Well, yes, I will do so without fail," said the Dutchman, who in truth was as interested in liberating his coins as the girl. His opinion of Rose had shifted slightly because she was a friend of Jane's — but only slightly. "If the general will lend me my troop back."

  "Granted," said Putnam, who was prepared to do much more to get the squire out of his powdered white hair.

  "But Dr. Keen said you must come alone — "

  "Tut, tut, my dear; one doesn't go into the lion's den unarmed. Undoubtedly our doctor friend has some surprise in store for me, some stupendous-sized leech which he plans to twirl around my head. My men here will sneak through the brush and wait until I have flushed out his plot. It will undoubtedly be clever," added the Dutchman as an aside, "but the inherent limitations of the British intellect will leave a large gap for us to proceed through."

  Jake and the soldiers helped the grief-stricken old Mr. Busch up to his farm, comforting him as best they could with the aid of some medicinal rum kept by the fireplace. The lieutenant colonel had just finished wrapping his wounds in bandages and taken a sip of the rum himself when there was a sharp knock at the door. One of the soldiers answered it to discover two men sent by General Putnam.

  "We were told to fish Colonel Gibbs from the river if necessary," said one of the privates, "and return him before the general is drowned by verbiage."

  "Do you understand those orders, sir?" asked the other, whose face betrayed the fact that he himself did not.

  "Oh, absolutely," said Jake, laughing. "It means the general has made the acquaintanceship of my good friend, Claus van Clynne."

  Jake borrowed some shoes and Mr. Busch's horse to ride to the house on the Fishkill road where the general had made his temporary headquarters. Along the way he found Private Martin, who claimed to have been blown there by the bomb blast. While that seemed highly unlikely, the Connecticut private could not remember what had happened if not that. In fact, he could not remember much of anything at all, including his adventure on the river or his brief sojourn under the command of "General" van Clynne.

  Nor did he remember having been among the privates that Old Put had routed from a New York City wine cellar on the eve of the British invasion a year before.

  "I'm sure I would remember that, sir," muttered the distressed soldier as General Putnam questioned him about the incident. In Jake's opinion, that was the one thing he might well remember, his profuse headshaking to the contrary.

  "Well, what do you remember?" demanded the general.

  "Being inoculated against the pox, sir."

  At that, Old Put turned several shades of color. "Get back to the damn hospital then. Get!" The general turned
to Jake as Martin vanished through the door. "These damn inoculations. Half my army is sick, and the other half is guarding the damn fools."

  "Begging your pardon, sir," said Jake, "but the Dutchman?"

  "The Dutchman?"

  "Claus van Clynne. I understood from your message that he was here."

  "I sent him off with some men to look after a kidnapping. Frankly, I was glad to get rid of him. This van Clynne — he claimed to be your partner."

  "He has served lately as my assistant," said Jake. "He has his own ideas about his importance. He has saved my life now on more than one occasion, though I'm not sure I would admit it in his presence."

  "I doubt he would give you the chance," said the general.

  -Chapter Forty-seven-

  Wherein, the despicable Dr. Keen makes one last display of his prodigious talents, to Squire van Clynne's great distress.

  Van Clynne's plan for foiling Dr. Keen was a classic snare maneuver, during which he would offer himself as temporary bait while his Connecticut soldiers closed the noose. After positioning his men in the woods near the cottage, he snuck back to the roadway and prepared to proceed toward the cottage.

  At this point, sweet Jane threatened to become a barrier to the plan, wanting to join him. Van Clynne had to turn his considerable powers of persuasion on her, assuring her that in the first place he was well armed — the red ruby dirk was hidden up his sleeve and two tomahawks were secreted at the sides of his coat — and in the second, she would perform a much more useful function by remaining here.

  "Doing what?"

  "Well, you shall be our reserve," proclaimed the Dutchman. "Ready to swoop in like winged Victory herself at the moment of denouement."

  "That is not a job," said Jane. "Rose is my friend and I want to help rescue her. I can and I shall."