The Iron Chain (21 page)

The only inconvenience was the poor design of the structure, which concentrated all openings at the front of the road, in full view of the soldiers.

Jake waited until both men were turned in the opposite direction and then scampered into the barn through a narrow doorway without being seen.

Almost without being seen. For he had no sooner ducked from the dim twilight of the roadway to the utter darkness of the barn's interior when he heard a shout from the street.

Somewhat indistinct, the words were followed by the more definite sound of a pair of boots running in his direction. Jake took a step backwards into the bowels of the large structure, only to feel something sharp and pointed in his back. Instinctively, he dropped the musket and put up his hands — then ducked in a flash, diving to the ground in case there was a loaded gun attached to the bayonet that had stuck him.

Not precisely. As he rolled over to kick his assailant, Jake looked up into the puzzled eyes of a large but tranquil ox. It curled its tongue with a question, yawned, and shook its head. Two dozen of its fellows swung their tails in sympathy.

Jake scooped up the old man's musket and pushed his way between the animals as the militiaman arrived.

"Out, you thief, I know you're in there!" called one of the guards. "You Tory cowboys won't be stealing any of the town's oxen tonight, I promise you."

The men murmured in consultation outside, revealing their names as Harrold and Daniel, but otherwise offered little that was useful to Jake. He slipped to the back of the ox pack and waited for the guards' next move.

A sound at the large center door alerted him to their plans, and suggested a counterattack. By the time the door swung open, Jake had the oxen mustered and pressing forward.

A stampede it wasn't. But the soldiers had their hands full trying to contain the large, lumbering creatures, and found it impossible to close the door before three or four escaped. This engendered some arguing as the men found it necessary to split up, one entering the barn and the other going after the beasts. It also gave Jake the opportunity to climb to the second floor loft.

Leaving his musket in the straw, the patriot jumped down onto Daniel's back as he came into the barn, thinking to ride him to the ground and quickly knock him out.

Jake would have had a better chance with one of the oxen, and in fact, might be forgiven for thinking he had landed on one. Daniel Higgins was an immense nineteen-year-old, and his first reaction to Jake's assault was a noncommittal shrug, as if he did not realize he'd been tackled. This was followed by a violent shake and shudder, as Jake grabbed hold of his throat with one arm and pummeled the side of his head with the other. The man began screaming for help — Jake would have been justified in making a similar plea — and pitched forward so quickly that the patriot spy flew forward onto the ground.

The blow did not hurt him, though the smear of ox dung on his face when he landed was nearly incapacitating. Jake just barely rolled out of the way as Daniel charged forward, and watched with some satisfaction as the man slipped on the flattened ox turd himself.

It took two kicks to the side of Daniel's head to knock him senseless. Jake had just picked up the man's musket when he heard a sound behind him. He swung around and saw the other militiaman entering the barn, rifle in hand.

There was a split second of opportunity before the man could bring his gun to bear. But Jake could no more shoot a member of his army than he could shoot himself, even for the greater good of the Cause. He threw down the weapon and stood away from the fallen soldier.

"I asked only if you would know him. Sometimes, the circumstances of our surroundings can be so different that the familiar appears strange."

"This is a trick."

"A trick? Why do you think I didn't kill you?"

"You have your reasons, I suspect." Harrold watched as Jake slowly circled around toward the barn door. "I'm not going to let you run out of here."

Harrold hesitated, but then shook his head. In all this time, he had kept his finger firmly on the trigger, and for all his confusion, had not quite dropped his aim. A sudden noise, even a sharp movement, might cause him to fire — and shorten Jake Gibbs's career considerably.

But Jake's object was not to run out the door — it was to slap it closed and send the interior into pitch-black darkness. He dove against the heavy door the way a child jumps into a snow pile. The long irons hinges creaked in anger, but swung back nevertheless, shutting out the dim twilight.

As Jake hit the ground, he heard the stinging bee of the bullet pass over his head.

"You shouldn't have fired, Harrold. First rule of warfare, never shoot at what you can't see."

But Jake's eyes were no better adapted to the dimness than the militiaman's. He rolled forward, abruptly bouncing into a wall. As he got to his feet, he realized Harrold had gotten a bead on him and charged forward; Jake just managed to jump away as the militiaman lunged.

The crack Harrold's head took off the wall must have been severe, but it didn't stop him — he flailed with his rifle, using it as a club, and caught Jake in the side of the head. Jake ate straw and dirt for a moment, then caught a sharp blow to his ribs before managing to roll away.

This was just the sort of impromptu contest the American militia did well in. Put them in line and drill them until the corn sprouted, and no more than a third would follow the commands during a set-piece battle. But give them an ambush, let them show initiative, and they were strong foes indeed.

Unlike General Percy, the man who led the redcoat retreat from Lexington and Concord, Jake was not about to play into the militia's hands by retreating. Instead, he began a spirited counterattack, pulling at Harrold's leg and catching him off-balance. He knocked the fellow to the ground, where they began to wrestle for an advantage amid the legs of the cattle, who every so often added a kick of annoyance at being disturbed.

Now the reader will recall that Jake Gibbs is a tall, strongly-built man just past twenty-three; in his stocking feet he stands two inches beyond six feet, and every inch of his frame is well supported by muscle. His opponent, in his stocking feet, came no higher than Jake's collarbone; he liked to tip the bottle at night, and in truth had shied away from brawling ever since receiving a bloody nose as a nine-year-old. But here was a man who was fighting for his country; Jake would have had an easier time grappling with a German giant brought across the ocean to pay his prince's debts. Certainly he wished he was, for then he might have fought with a freer hand. Here he had to fight hard enough to stop the well-motivated patriot, yet not so hard that he would cause him permanent harm.

Harrold grabbed Jake by the throat and refused to let go, even as Jake rolled him onto his back and began pounding his head against the hard-packed floor. The man's grip tightened and tightened, and Jake began to fear that he would have the fellow's brains splattered across the floor before winning his freedom.

Finally the pounding took its toll, and Jake felt Harrold's grip loosening. He gave one more smash and jumped up, half expecting the militiaman to bolt up after him. But Harrold finally had been knocked senseless; his troubled breathing foretold a severe headache when he awoke.

Jake quickly went to the door; there were no reinforcements in sight. He tied the two unconscious militiamen up with leather straps and hauled them to the far wall, fastening them to a ring there. The oxen, confused by the activity, were pulled back inside their pen, and Jake found five seconds to tuck his shirt in his pants before returning to prison.

_{-Chapter Twenty-four-}

Wherein, Claus van Clynne is guest of honor at a bloodletting, and Rose unhoops herself.

C
laus van Clynne
was generally known as a punctual man, at least as far as business was concerned. He was therefore greatly grieved that he could not arrive on time for his appointment with Jake at Pine's Bridge.

To put it more accurately, he was greatly grieved that he could not be anywhere other than his present location, a small house near Colabaugh Pond. The effects of the drug Major Dr. Keen had administered had worn off not long after midnight, now nearly four hours gone; the Dutchman was therefore in full possession of his senses — which meant he not only could watch as Keen snapped the lid off the large, coffin-like box his assistant Phillip Percival brought into the cottage, but he fully understood that the collection of jars inside contained particularly loathsome leeches.

Under normal circumstances, a bloodletting can be most beneficial when one's bodily humors are out of balance. The efficacy of the treatment has been documented for centuries, and one need no more fear a good medicinal leech than worry about being somehow poisoned by tobacco smoke. But these were not ordinary circumstances.

Nor were they ordinary leeches. Imported from a river in South America, each filled an entire two-gallon jar by
itself.
The black on the upper portion of its body was complemented by a tawny red on the belly, coincidentally the exact color of dried blood. Rows of small pincers shaped like tiny, vibrating daggers protruded from the elongated belly, stretching out like Howe's army marching up Manhattan after the debacle of Kipp's Bay.

Keen handled each animal with great care, grabbing the tail end with a long set of wrought-iron pincers and using a pointed rod to keep the head in line as he approached his patient. He wore a thick set of leather gloves that rose to his elbows, stiff riding boots, and a leather apron such as a glassblower might wear, sturdy protection should the massive worm test his availability as a target.

Stripped to a small loincloth that had been cut from his red flannel under suit — Percival had taken great pleasure wielding his knife to slice away the material — van Clynne attempted to employ a special mind technique he had learned from an old Huron Indian. Confronted by a host of Iroquois eager for his beaver pelts, the Indian had concentrated his will, flooding his opponents' minds with frightening hallucinations designed to make them run away empty-handed.

In this case, the Dutchman conjured a portrait of the most grievous beast he could think of — an irate Dutchwoman cheated of the proper price for a cow, coming at Keen with a large butcher knife.

The trick worked about as well for van Clynne as it had for the Indian — Keen used his black metal prod to guide the leech's head around the Dutchman's right ankle, whereupon the animal's instincts took over and it wrapped itself around the rest of the bare leg, up to the knee joint.

The sensation was something like what might be felt if a hundred kittens took their tiny paws and stuck them into the skin all at once; it was more a light tickle than a sharp pain. Far worse was the gentle slurping sound that accompanied the pricking.

"Well, sir, it was just about time for my monthly bloodletting," said van Clynne as cheerfully as possible. "I suppose this will cure me of the headache I suffered from your last potion."

"This will cure you of many ailments," said Keen. "Though I must say I have never liked bloodletting as a general therapy. My experimentation has proven it rather ineffective."

"Well then, perhaps we should desist. I wouldn't want to prove the exception to the rule."

"We must always seek more empirical evidence," said Keen.

The second leech was a bit rambunctious when released from its jar; Keen had to bat its head several times before getting it under control. But the creature was quite happy once it found van Clynne's left leg; it wrapped itself around even more tightly than the first, uttering a contented slurp.

"Your paper money is on the bench there," said Keen, pointing as he opened another jar. The interaction of the glass, air, and alkaline solution produced a peculiar
pffff
sound when each vessel was first breached. "As for the real money—"

"I do not carry counterfeit, sir. My paper currency is all genuine."