by Jim DeFelice
So van Clynne began to feel optimistic, and as always when he was optimistic, he began to talk, and as always when he began to talk, he began to complain. It was good-natured criticism, meant for the edification of the listeners.
"This is an adequate vessel, for its purpose," said the squire. "But, there are certain recommendations I would make for its improvement. If it were constructed in the Dutch manner, it would be two or three times faster. We would be in New York already."
"And why would you want to get there quickly?" demanded one of the sailors.
"Oh, I am in no hurry. I will get there when I arrive," said van Clynne philosophically. "But I should much prefer a Dutch sloop."
"Bah."
"The Dutch have been sailing this river for considerable time," essayed van Clynne. "We have learned to make the vessel flat-bottomed —"
"As is this one."
"— with a shallow draft that can tiptoe across the sandbars. The sides are much lower, much broader. This vessel is barely big enough for both you and I, while on a Dutch sloop, half the province could stretch out. And your sail arrangement: inefficient in the extreme."
"What's the trouble here?" demanded the captain. "What is this shouting about? Are you aiming at waking the entire shoreline?"
"The prisoner's giving us advice to make the ship better."
"Oh he is, is he? Well perhaps the improvements would begin with using him as an anchor."
"Tut, tut, sir; I won't be moved by idle threats."
"Idle, is it?"
But it was, so long as the crew kept Egans aboard. And as these men — British sailors under special order — had been detailed to transport Egans southward, they were forced to leave his prisoner in peace.
Which was more than van Clynne did for them, continuing his loud harangue on such diverse topics as the quality of Dutch hemp and the fine art of skimming stones across the water. His talk was not precisely idle. The Dutchman hoped some citizen ashore might hear it, recognize its timbre, and knowing his great antagonism toward the sea, row out to investigate. His heart perked as they neared Poughkeepsie, as the city's residents were especially alert, but the good citizens of the town seemed all abed. Fishkill Landing was the same. No matter how loud he spoke — and he was soon nearly hoarse with his shouting — he could not raise a response.
Finally, van Clynne saw that they were tending toward the eastern shore. He marshaled his tired body, still heavily chained, and decided he would save his strength for some new effort, as yet invented.
"So you've finally shut your mouth, have you?" asked Egans.
"My mouth opens and shuts as it pleases me," said van Clynne. "And as for you, sir, there are several facts regarding your past of which you are quite mistaken. It would please me greatly to straighten you out on them. First off, regarding your ancestry — "
"I think it will please you very much to be quiet now," said Egans, revealing his pistol. The dim light made his tattooed face, as well as his grin, all the more sinister.
Van Clynne saw no alternative but to nod in agreement.
* * *
Jake spat a mouthful of water from his throat as he grabbed onto the tree trunk. The strong tides of the river were pushing it rapidly downstream, toward the British and their ships. Alison struggled, but her exhausted body was no match for the strong current. She felt her grip slipping; suddenly, she fell headfirst into the waves.
The patriot spy grabbed the back of her shirt and hauled her up over the floating log.
"All right," he said. "I suppose I'm stuck with you. Let's not visit any sea rays along the way."
Alison was too winded to celebrate. Jake kicked hard, pushing the log before him as he aimed toward the dark shadow of Manhattan island.
The Hudson is no simple stream. Like a great lady, she moves back and forth as much according to whim as the edicts of the moon. Between her various eddies and flows, she is constantly changing direction, and often goes three different ways at once. Tonight she was feeling particularly capricious; Jake had no sooner found a suitable spot to aim at on the eastern shore than the Hudson took it into her head to send him back west.
In seconds, Jake found himself floating a mere dozen yards from the British fifth-rater, a frigate-sized warship retired from the line but still a considerable power in these waters. The deck was awash with light, and reflections leapt across the waves, the shadows dancing in a wild, silent procession. He had no choice but to drift; furious kicking might raise all manner of unwanted attention.
Fortunately, the British eyes were drawn to the Jersey shore, where word had just come of a major land battle near a rebel bridge. Rumor had inflated the encounter that had claimed Paul Brown's life; had the wind been different, Jake might have heard whispers of two battalions of rebels encountered, with George Washington himself at their head. Such are the strange fortunes of war; the same skirmish that made an orphan of Alison now allowed them to pass unnoticed by a considerably larger and more dangerous British force.
The Hudson now pushed the two patriots toward the Manhattan shore. Jake felt the current take him as if he were a feather on the wind; the log lifted nearly out of the water, and in a trice they were speeding toward land, within sight of the former Fort Washington just to the north.
The rushing current and riptide threatened a fresh disaster for Jake and Alison. The way before them was filled with large and treacherously sharp rocks, plunging their nasty beaks into the night air like the mouths of the Furies themselves.
"Watch out!" Jake yelled as the log rode forward. Alison slipped to the side, barely saving her arm from the craggy jaws of a boulder. The maneuver took the last of her energy, and in the next second, she fell off the tree trunk.
Jake dove face-first over the log after her. The moonlight was by no means bright enough to illuminate the depths, and he flailed blindly with his hands and feet, trying to feel for the poor girl. His right shin struck so hard against a rock that he involuntarily cursed; this led him to take a huge gulp of water into his lungs, and he fought to the surface coughing.
Her father's dying plea sounded through the sharp rap of the water against the rocks, and as he cleared his chest of water, Jake cursed himself for stopping at the inn, cursed himself still harder for suggesting that the pair guide him to the river.
For a brief moment the torrent around him seemed to cease and the din fall away. Jake heard a faint burble to his right, more animal than human. He dove toward it, catching Alison as she slipped downward for the third time.
He grabbed her under the arm and pulled her to the surface, tossing her limp body into the air with all his strength. Eliciting a hopeful cough for his efforts, he tightened his grip and spun back to face the rocks — and just barely managed to get his free hand before his face as the tide slammed him into a large, moss-covered crag.
The entire world might be coming to an end around him, but Jake could see nothing but black granite, feel nothing but the young girl clamped in his arm. His fingers pounded against the rock as if to hold it off, while the current took his feet and shot them to his right, upsetting his balance. But this proved fortuitous, for they landed against a sandbar, and in the next moment Jake was able to lever himself and Alison into a protected pool of water and get to his knees.
The shoreline proper was still some yards off, but the way now was easy. With his last bit of strength, he hauled Alison over his shoulders and crawled onto dry land, collapsing just as the first rosy fingers of dawn poked through the east.
Chapter Thirteen
Wherein, a weaver’s measure is retaken.
Having released his anger in disposing of his guide and driver, Major Dr. Keen mounted his coach and took stock of the situation. Once launched on a mission, a member of the secret department must carry it to completion. In this case, Gibbs's escape was doubly vexing, as the doctor had already sent a dispatch to his master, General Bacon, indicating the spy's demise. Should Bacon learn of the error, he would be well within h
is rights to punish Keen for his premature optimism.
There was only one punishment meted out to members of the secret department, no matter the offense: death, as untimely and unpleasant as possible.
Keen had not yet received an acknowledgment from Bacon, and so there might be a short opening for him to ransom the situation, assuming he could do so without Bacon finding out.
In any event, there seemed no other option. He whipped his horses southward toward the largest settlements, reasoning that it would be the most likely direction for Jake to travel, as he must by rights have come from the north. Still, the British assassin knew from experience that finding the spy would not be an easy task. At least, Keen thought to himself, he would no longer have to deal with Gibbs's vexing sidekick, the obnoxiously rotund and endlessly talkative van Clynne.
Thus, when he reached the small village where Jake had eaten and clothed himself, he stopped more to discover the lay of the land than in actual hope of apprehending the patriot spy.
Keen's fancy coach, to say nothing of the fine buckskin breeches and embroidered coat he wore, marked him as a man of wealth. In certain Whig circles, this would immediately arouse suspicions, and so when he climbed down near the public house, the doctor began promulgating a cover story to any who would listen: He was a private citizen appointed to a committee of inspection by Governor Clinton, and was looking for a friend said to be traveling with a Colonel Hamilton.
"And who might that be, sir?" asked the tavern owner when they were introduced.
"A man with blond hair, an inch or two over six foot," said Keen. He placed his weight on his walking stick, picking the pocket watch from his vest as if concerned about the fact that it was already well past seven p.m.
"Fella like that was in around dinner, midday or so," said the keeper. "Said Colonel Hamilton directed him here. Ate like a horse."
"That would be him," answered the doctor. "We were to meet in town, but I was delayed. I wonder where he's gone to?"
The keeper shrugged. "Seemed in a hurry. Asked after the weaver, if I recall."
Keen thanked the man, left a shilling on the table, and walked down the weedy, dust-strewn street to the weaver's shop.
Candles were lit in the small building, which was factory, home, and sales floor all in one. The doctor rapped his stick on the side of the old Dutch-style split door before opening it himself and stepping into the large front room. He was greeted by the steady whisking sound of a loom.
The large, wood-framed machine took up nearly a third of the room. Its levers and pedals were being worked with great concentration by Kristen Daley, the daughter whom the weaver had strenuously tried to protect earlier in the day.
The girl was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice her visitor at first. Keen likewise was transfixed, for here was a perfect American beauty, bundled in mobcap and baggy smock, but no less beautiful for these plain coverings. In London, the doctor had been quite a partaker of feminine charms, and if the world might be said to be filled with connoisseurs of female beauty, he could rightly be accorded a place of honor among them.
The doctor doffed his hat — rare was the Colonial who earned this honor — then tapped his stick on the floor, tilting his head at an angle calculated to give off a good perspective on his jaw.
The girl looked up with a start."Excuse me," said the doctor. "I am looking for a friend." He stepped forward and bowed. "Allow me to introduce myself: Dr. Harland Keen. I am on a mission for Governor Clinton."
"Oh," said the girl. She started to get up from the loom, but caught her dress on the bench; the frame, pedals, and cloth mechanisms formed a kind of cage for the operator, making it difficult to exit quickly. Keen flew across the room, catching her in his arms. He lifted her up as if she were a princess, twirling her away from the machine and then setting her down, bowing with all the flourish he had once used on the floor of the king's palace.
Under other circumstances, Keen would have been sorely tempted to pursue his interest in her. Indeed, he had to fight severely against his nature, reminding himself that Gibbs's existence was a threat to his own life. "I hope you are all right, my dear," he told her, stepping back. "I am searching for a friend of mine, a Colonel Gibbs. He is tall, well-built, with blond hair. I believe he came here searching for a suit."
"A stranger bought clothes from my father this afternoon," said the girl. "He was tall and more handsome than any man I have ever seen."
"Some women find Mr. Gibbs pleasing," allowed Keen, suppressing a reaction to her flutter. "Though I could not say but his nose seems over-large for his face, as well as his health. We were supposed to meet in this town, or I thought we were."
Keen walked to a table near the side, where some fine polonaise gowns were displayed. It took little imagination to picture the girl in one.
"He said he was going to New York," she told him.
Keen barely heard. It had been too long since he partook of beauty, and the temptation to satisfy himself on this morsel was overwhelming. Whether the girl understood the look in his eye as he turned or not, she took a step backwards. Keen advanced arms forward, his body literally shaking in anticipation.
"Another step toward my daughter and I will blow your head off."
Keen stopped dead, then looked up with a contrite smile at Kristen's father in the doorway.
"This is an interesting way of greeting customers."
"What business have you in my shop?" demanded the weaver, unimpressed. "State it quickly."
"I am looking for a friend," said Keen. Walking stick in hand, he took a tentative step toward the man. His gun appeared to be one of the colonists' infamous Pennsylvania rifles, though at this distance, its legendary accuracy was hardly essential.
"You have no friend here," said the weaver. "Out with you."
"Now, now, my good man. We are all friends in one way or another," said Keen.
The weaver's answer was cut short by a sharp jab of the doctor's cane in his stomach. The gun fired harmlessly into the ceiling; Keen smacked the side of the man's skull and sent him to a deep but unrestful sleep against the cabinet.
"And now, my darling," said the doctor, turning back. "Perhaps you would like to come with me to New York? Have you seen the sights there?"
"She will not see them today," said a sharp female voice.
Surprised, Keen turned to his right. Standing in the doorway to the back of the house was a woman holding a musket.
"I don't know who you are," declared the girl's mother, "but if you do not walk backward from this building this instant, you will sing with the angels in heaven."
"As you wish, madam."
Keen was a man of science, but he considered that there are certain times in life when Fate herself may be playing a hand, and it is best not to interfere. He could always return here at some future date, once his job was complete.
He paused at the door, and reached inside his vest for his purse.
Mrs. Daley brought the musket up and steadied her aim.
"Permit me, madam, to pay for your troubles," he said mildly. "And a little extra."
He threw thirty crowns on the floor, a princely sum in this, and indeed most, households.
"I hope that you will spend a portion of it on that beautiful gown," he told Kristen, pointing it out. "It would look most beautiful on you."
He did not pause to hear the reply.
Chapter Fourteen
Wherein, Alison promotes Jake to fatherhood, without the usual preliminaries.
Jake's exertions, along with the tide and current, had delivered them to a point not only across the river but far south of the shore where he and Alison had departed. If the reader were to stand on the ridge at the girdle of the island — in the same batteries that slowed the Hessian advance the previous fall — he would find the two patriots to the south, though still beyond Cadwallader's mansion in the rocky portion of the city's outer precincts.
Anyone who has only visited the seaport an
d close streets at the tip of the island before the war will do well here to adjust his vision from brick buildings to farmland, or more properly, swamps and rough shoreline, which is where Alison and Jake found themselves as dawn ran its fingers through their damp hair.
Alison was the first to wake, roused from slumber by some warm licks on her face. These came from a large but friendly mastiff, who stood over her with a quizzical look. When she opened her eyes, the dog took a half-step back and gave a triumphant bark, as if he had breathed life into an inanimate object.
Alison recoiled from the brown-toned dog, with its well-meaning but spittle-ridden tongue. The tragedy of the previous night returned to her in a flood of horrible memories, and tears flowed freely, sorrow and fright combining in a way the fifteen-year-old had never felt before. Kneeling against the rough sand, she buried her head in her hands as the dog looked on in confusion.
"Do not cry, young man," said a gentle voice. "Here now, you're all right."
Alison — whose hair was cut short and who was still wearing the breeches, shirt, vest and coat of a boy — was helped to her feet by a woman in a spotless white dress.
"Am I in heaven?" she asked.
The woman laughed. "I doubt Manhattan island has ever been considered that, or it wouldn't have been sold so cheaply. Were you shipwrecked?"
"Our boat sank. My father —"
Alison looked back at the rocks where Jake was lying, his arms crowded over his head. The dog was standing over him with a quizzical air, perhaps not knowing quite where to apply his tongue.
"Back, King, stand away." The woman patted the dog's neck lightly. "He means well, but he is such a slobberer. Come with me to the house, young man. We'll send some servants back to help your father while we get you some dry clothes. What is your name?"
