by Jim DeFelice
The explosion, loud to begin with, was amplified by the closeness of the buildings to the street. The shock waves were such that the ground trembled and people ten blocks away thought the world surely had come to an end. No glass within a hundred yards remained intact, and two-thirds of the British guard fell over like bugs catching a whiff of Dr. Pete’s Miraculous Fly Powder. The rest were dazed, groping for their weapons as well as their senses, and had been rendered suddenly deaf.
As was Jake.
At least he had been expecting the blast. He shook his head a few times and ran forward, pistol in hand. The disposition of the force was not immediately clear in the smoke and dust, and he moved cautiously, still getting his bearings as he hopped over the prostrate bodies of the fallen guards.
Van Clynne, meanwhile, had been thrown from the wagon by the concussion. Spitting out a mouthful of dirt, he rose and grabbed his musket, standing in the center of a silent street.
More than most men, the squire lived in a universe of noises – a good portion of them of his own making – and for a brief moment he was as dazed as anyone else on the block. But the heat of the nearby fire quickly brought him back to rights; he unpacked the melting wax from his ears and was once more himself.
There were shouts on the next block over, and someone was calling, “Fire!” The smoldering pitch and dry timbers of the wagon combined to produce a flow of dark smoke and flames. The poor horse that drove the wagon had been knocked unconscious, and van Clynne had to step gingerly between its legs as he looked for the prisoner he was to rescue. Before he reached him, he found the four other men lying chained together in a heap on the ground, so close to the burning wagon that they were almost hot to the touch. Fearing the men would combust, van Clynne tried for a moment to rouse them; when that failed, he reached for the potion bottle.
Bottle, as in glass – it had been shattered by the squire’s fall.
Cursing, van Clynne doffed his coat, thinking to wave the sodden corner under the stunned men’s noses. But in order to do so, he had to put down his gun – which left him awkwardly unarmed when he looked up again and found a British sergeant measuring his sword against his belly.
Van Clynne smiled and followed his first instinct, tried to talk his way out of the situation.
Whether that would have worked under other circumstances or not, it certainly could not here – the sergeant had been rendered deaf by the blast. Fortunately, he’d also been knocked a little dull. Van Clynne tossed his jacket into the man’s face and the sergeant stumbled backward, dropping his sword.
The sharp scent of the rat poison in van Clynne’s pocket worked as well as Jake had predicted; after no more than two steps the man had full control of his senses. Fortunately, by then van Clynne had full control of the swords and began tattooing his insignia on the man’s chest. He disposed of him with a swipe so hard, the sword broke at its hilt.
“Damned inferior British metal,” grumbled van Clynne, scooping up his coat and gun as he returned to the prisoners. “How can they claim to rule the world, when they can’t even find a decent ore deposit?”
At the other end of the confusion, Jake came upon two soldiers who had survived the blast with some shadow of consciousness. HE fired into the chest of one of the redcoats, who was holding his bayonet forward in a stunned, senseless pose. He grabbed the barrel of the gun as the man collapsed to the ground, mortally wounded; then he swung it around for a bayonet duel with another soldier. The sharp knives and metal barrels crashed against each other with heavy clicks and bangs, but both Jake and the soldier were oblivious to the cacophony.
The soldier was shorter than Jake, but he was stocky and strong; the American’s quick victory owed more that the lingering effects of the blast than physical superiority.
Two other redcoats were rushing forward in what looked to Jake as an attempt to kill the prisoners where they lay. He ran the first through the back with the bloody bayonet. Caught by surprise, the redcoat jerked to his right so quickly that the musket flew out of Jake’s hands. The soldier’s own weapon, propelled by his death spasms, caught Jake flat in the chest; it was fortunate indeed that he had been close enough to be struck by the barrel and not the blade, for the blow might well have chopped him in half.
Jake, surprised and with his injured knee hurting again, fell to the dirt on his back. The dying redcoat lunged forward, trying with his last gasp to cut Jake’s throat with the knife at the tip of his weapon.
A sudden burst of energy propelled Jake’s elbow into the ground and levered him out of harms’ way. The soldier fell into his place, destined never to rise until Gabriel sounds his final trumpet.
With a cringe of pain, Jake stumbled to his feet. He found it easier to hop than walk, and took two steps, looking for van Clynne and the Liberty man who had saved his life. The smoke from the fire and dust from the battle combined to turn the roadway almost as black as the night, but there was no mistaking what he saw next – a bright officer’s sword, pointed directly at his nose.
-Chapter Thirty-five-
Wherein, our hero finds himself at sword point, and discovers other disagreeable facts relating to his situation.
Jake stepped back gingerly, the pain in his knee momentarily vanquished by the officer’s sword. He had his pocket pistol hidden beneath his shirt, but the officer gave him no opportunity to grab for it, keeping his blade at Jake’s face as he retreated backward. Theirs was a slow, steady procession, a study in precision greatly in contrast to the pandemonium nearby. The officer was grinning, obviously confident that he had the advantage. Possibly he hoped to take Jake alive, for otherwise he should have pressed his advantage with considerably more vigor. He could at least have slashed a few times in front of Jake’s face to increase his fear. Instead he moved forward with the steady pace of the grim reaper, intent on his duty and confident he would eventually have his man.
A strategy presented itself to Jake as he felt the wall of the building behind him. A candle tossed in someone’s face has the effect of drawing his attention away from everything else. Jake could then whisk his gun out and fire at leisure.
The officer followed him as he edged along the building. He had not yet called on Jake to surrender, and as Jake backed up he realized why. The officer’s eyes were crossed in psychotic wrath; the blast had knocked some part of his psyche loose, and he meant to back Jake against the wall and slowly, gradually, run him through the face with his sword. He would make the American an example of what happened to traitors to the Crown.
Jake fully intended to be a model for others, but with a much different outcome. He reached the window where the candle was, put out his hand – and came up empty.
The candle wasn’t there.
Jake took his eye off the officer for the briefest of moments, a mindless reaction at losing the item he most sought. But inattention as certain moments is nearly always fatal.
So it would have been in this case, had not the officer been hit squarely in the head by a round ball made of lead, approximately three-quarters of an inch in diameter. The bullet left a vast splatter of red and a look of puzzlement on the officer’s face as he fell to the ground.
“The patriots are winning,” said a fair, slim-waisted woman in her mid-twenties, standing in the open door with a musket in her arms. The little girl Jake had helped inside earlier peeked from behind her dress.
Jake still suffered temporary deafness, but there are certain thoughts so profound they can break through any disability. He kissed the woman’s cheek in gratitude, then grabbed the officer’s sword and rushed back to the prisoners and wagon.
Given the circumstances, the kiss was a long delay, and though Jake did not berate himself for it, van Clynne certainly might had he seen it. In the event, however, the Dutchman was much too busy trying to rouse the chained prisoners by rubbing their faces with his antidote-drenched coat. He managed to revive one, but the potion had lost its potency, and he soon realized that his only hope of saving them was t
o drag them down the street, away from the fire and confusion.
By now the nearby citizens were rallying to the situation. It is true that the crowd was far from unanimous in its support of the patriots, and it will be duly recorded somewhere that a few Royalists ran to aid the soldiers. But van Clynne found his efforts to haul the prisoners to safety assisted by three or four strong lads, one of whom was already yelling the way to a smithy. He let them take charge of the men and turned back to find the fifth Liberty man, the one who had saved their lives aboard ship.
He found him lying on the ground, still dazed. Van Clynne hoisted the man on his back – it was easy enough, if you thought of the man as a pipe of beer – and was just scanning the street for an escape route when Jake came up running.
Hopping, actually, since the pain in his knee was acute. Even so, an escape in the general confusion was child’s play. Their horses quickly recovered, they started up the street as everyone’s attention was drawn to one of the shops which suddenly erupted in flame. A few loud explosions indicated that perhaps its owner had not been the good Loyalist his neighbors thought.
The smell of burnt gunpowder was still fresh in Jake’s nostrils fifteen minutes later, when he and van Clynne paused on their hasty retreat from the city. They had commandeered another wagon – this one free for the taking, its driver apparently giving his full attention to the fire. The rescued Liberty man slept soundly in the back as van Clynne drove its two horses and Jake rode along behind with van Clynne’s. Jake hearing had returned, providing some compensation for his other aches and injuries. The Dutchman was a worn as her, and with night already well on its way, both wanted nothing more than to find some field where they could sleep.
This was not the place to do so, however. They had to get north of the island as quickly as possible, before a thorough search could be mounted for the escapee.
As van Clynne steadfastly refused to go anywhere near the water, the best course was a quick run north across King’s Bridge. They would need papers, however to pass the sentries there. Jake knew a man nearby whom he could call on in need, Edward O’Connor, a farmer well-connected with the patriot network in both the city and Bouwerie. While he was loath to expose anyone else to risk today, Jake decided he must contact the man and see if he could facilitate their escape.
He also hoped the farmer could care for his liberated prisoner. The Liberty man’s reaction to the noise keg was extreme, and Jake worried that he had been permanently harmed. The man was still unconscious, and Jake feared his bumpy wagon ride was complicating his injuries.
“O’Connor’s farm is just on the other side of this hill,” Jake told van Clynne. “Pull the wagon behind those trees there and wait while I go and see what sort of reinforcements I can get.”
“The only reinforcement I need,” said the Dutchman in a grumpy voice, “is a good mug of ale and a feather bed.”
“We’ll stop at Prisco’s tavern,” promised Jake. “I’m sure you’ll find a warm reception there.”
Van Clynne garumphed in reply – but it was a gentle garumph, as his responses went.
O’Connor told Jake that passing out of the city over either of the northern bridges would be extremely dangerous, even with the proper papers, as a general alert had been sounded because of the earlier riot and reports of rebel activity. It would be much easier to escape by boat to the opposite shore and then north through East Chester. In fact, he could send word to his brother and have the boat waiting when they arrived. A second dispatch was made for a doctor, and O’Connor ordered his daughter to prepare a bed in the barn loft while he went back with Jake to fetch his fallen comrade.
“These trees or those?” O’Connor asked as they descended the hill to the road where Jake had left van Clynne.
“These,” said Jake, leading the way.
To the wrong trees.
But the wagon was not behind the other clump, either.
“You sure it was here?”
“Positive,” responded Jake, but after a few minutes of searching, he had to admit that he was not sure of anything anymore. He and O’Connor ventured across the field to a spot that presented yet another excellent hiding place, shielded not only from the road but from their approach.
There they found the wagon and van Clynne, with his hands tied behind his back and his mouth gagged.
O’Connor put his lamp down next to him and undid his knots and gag, but before the Dutchman could say anything, Jake felt a sharp poke in the back.
“We’ve been waiting for your return, Mr. Gibbs,” said the Liberty man. “I almost believed that you had abandoned your friend. Such a sad statement that would have been on rebel morals. Get over there where I can see you.”
Jake extended his hands slowly. “What is this?”
“Generals Bacon and Howe felt your story just slightly too convenient, so they launched a plot to catch you out. General Bacon felt that, if in fact you were a spy, you would have a great sense of honor and feel obliged to rescue the man who helped win your freedom. I was dubious, I admit, but the general proved correct. He is an unfailing judge of character.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Jake.
“I was coming out to the ship with the prisoners when his aides stopped me on the water and told me to prepare the ruse. I’m afraid we had to beat the rebels quite a bit more than usual to make sure they were in no position to give me away.”
“Clever,” remarked Jake sarcastically.
“I was afraid you might have remembered me from the tavern the other night. Fortunately, your attention was distracted that evening. Or perhaps my American accent put you off. To adopt an accent – she is nothing, eh?” The last phrase was spoken in a tortured English that seemed to spring from a Frenchman.
“You were undoubtedly in the shadows, where all scoundrels belong,” Jake answered.
“Call me Captain Lewis,” said the man with mock generosity. “General Bacon has accorded you a great honor, Mr. Gibbs. He says that I need not kill you immediately. He hopes to keep his dinner appointment, after all.”
“He’s taken to cannibalism, has he?”
“You –“ Lewis ignored Jake and pointed to O’Connor. “Retie the knots on my fat Dutch friend there. The gag first. The man never shuts up.”
“I don’t think we’ll do that,” said Jake. “You’ve only got one gun, and there are three of us.”
“I have two guns,” said Lewis, throwing back his coat to reveal a second pistol. “And the sword besides. Really, I don’t expect much trouble. A fat Dutchman! To think the generals actually thought he might be a member of the Secret Department. A bad joke, surely.”
Jake stepped slowly to the side, lengthening the distance between himself and his compatriots. Even if the others were unarmed, Lewis would have a difficult time preventing them from escaping in the dark. They had only to kick over the lantern to get away.
Jake, on the other hand, would be shot unless he could think of something quickly.
“General Howe seemed persuaded by the authenticity of the Dutchman’s message,” continued the officer, no more than six feet away. “But it’s not the first thing he’s been wrong about since he came to America.”
“Snuff the light and throw the bomb!” shouted Jake, diving to the ground. “Throw the bomb!”
There was, of course, no bomb and it was not much of a diversion – just enough to momentarily confuse Lewis as he fired. Jake rolled on his side and then immediately jumped to his feet. With the long day’s last shot of adrenaline, he managed to find his opponent’s neck with his fist. But his blow was as weak as the flip of a trout’s fore fin – Lewis’s bullet had caught him in the shoulder, sapping his strength.
The British officer reached for his second pistol but could not grab it before Jake hit him again, this time with his good hand. The punch knocked Lewis backward and sent the second pistol to the ground, unfired. Lewis regained his balance and took a sharp swing at Jake, knocking him to the right. He fell on him and
the pair rolled together, scraping and pulling.
Van Clynne and O’Connor hastened to help, the farmer grabbing a thick wooden staff from the side of the road while van Clynne intended to rely on his fist. But the light was too dime and the antagonists too tangled for either man to find a suitable target.
Lewis kicked Jake in the ribs, loosening his grip. Reaching down to his boot, he grabbed a dagger and slashed at the American, determined that no matter what else happened, he would have his man dead.
Jake rolled backward down the slight incline, dodging Lewis as he lunged. He, too, reached for his boot – and came up with the elk-handled knife Leal had given him. Lewis fell upon him and the two blades sang a metallic song of death.
What poet could miss writing such a finale, with the savage’s knife extracting revenge against the brutes who killed him? But Fate’s rhymes are more complicated than a sonnet’s – with one bold swipe, Lewis knocked the weapon from Jake’s hand. The British agent wheeled back for a final blow.
A smash from O’Connor’s stick provided a temporary respite, knocking Lewis sideways and allowing Jake to scramble to his feet and grab Lewis’s fallen knife. Lewis, not seriously hurt, picked up the other blade, and the two men were again handily matched. They circled each other, looking for an opening.
Van Clynne approached the tumult with the caution of a cat sizing up his prey. He waited until Lewis was a mere arm’s length away, then leapt forward to grab him around the neck, trusting that Jake would spring forward and provide the coup de grace.
Unfortunately, O’Connor had a similar strategy in mind, attacking from the other side with his stick, which he wielded like a battering ram. Lewis was too accomplished a fighter to be taken by either man, and somersaulted away at the last moment, leaving them to fall against each other. O’Connor’s stave hit van Clynne square in the forehead, and the good squire fell senseless to the ground, pinning the farmer beneath him.
