The Iron Chain (29 page)

As he placed the pouches beneath the coach's rear seat, he caught a reflection of himself in the eyepiece of a small spyglass he kept there. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes — his eyes had that wild character so many of his critics had used in London as proof that he was mad. Truly, he told himself, they had confused genius with madness, high intellect with insanity — but nonetheless he paused to fix his hair, then took some paint to daub his cheeks and soften his brow. Finally, he retrieved a thin green vial from his store of medicines in the back; bracing himself, he uncorked it and drained the contents, forcing the liquid down against the natural reaction of his throat and gullet.

He only barely prevented himself from retching. Keen clamped his teeth together tightly and fought against the reaction; his fingers swung tight on the carriage wheel, holding on for support as tremors ravished his body. One hundred and seventy-six seconds of hell, and it was over; he felt the effects of the drug immediately.

The ill-tasting potion was his greatest discovery, made from a long list of expensive and difficult to obtain herbs and vapors. The slightly modified Egyptian formula promised immortality. While he doubted it could live up to that claim, Keen knew that each time he survived the bitter taste and reactions, he emerged refreshed and invigorated, and looked as if he were in his mid-twenties, despite his white hair.

He picked up his cane and leaned inside the coach door to tap the supine girl on her leg.

"Perhaps, my dear, I will give you a taste of this elixir. Eternal life would suit you — after we make a few other amendments to your constitution."

Keen laughed aloud and climbed up into the open driver's seat. He did not have a map, nor did he know the area. But the river surely lay to the west, and if he went in that direction he eventually would find a place where he could hire a boat and have himself rowed out.

Despite the thick clouds obscuring its path, the sun had already reached its meridian point in the sky when "General" van Clynne dispatched an advance party of his troops to scout the defenses of the second cove. As he waited with his main force, the Dutchman found his thoughts beginning to wander. He thought of his favorite gelding, left at the Mischief Inn; he thought of his companion Jake Gibbs, undoubtedly still disguised among the ranger troop.

And he thought, alas, of the river, and the dangers of traveling upon it if the Tories had been missed.

For a moment van Clynne wondered if it might be prudent in that case to hold his assault off until dark, when he would at least have the advantage of not seeing the waves before him.

But then a voice spoke in loud tones to his inner ear. It was so cantankerous, so cranky, so dour, that it could only belong to one person — Grandfather van Clynne.

"Listen to me, you no-account youngster, and listen good. This is your chance to win back our homestead. Get your fat arse out on the river or I will kick it there. Fail me, and never call yourself a van Clynne again!"

"Whatever you say, sir," said Martin. "There are horses and boats by the river, but only one guard," continued the private. "Should we attack?"

"Stealth, my boy, that is our strategy," said van Clynne. "I remember advising my good friend His Excellency General Washington the same thing on the eve of Trenton."

"You were at Trenton with General Washington?"

"Well, not precisely at the time," said the Dutchman, turning to his men. "You two execute a flanking maneuver from the roadside, you three come up the shoreline. The rest of us will give you a five-minute start, and then we will descend on them all, shouting like wilden."

"Wilden?"

"Indians, lad, Indians. Honestly, how long have you boys lived in this country?"

Whether van Clynne had actually been in the vicinity of Trenton — and the reader would be well advised to consume the full contents of his salt wagon before accepting that statement at face value — his plan here worked perfectly. The lone ranger guard was surprised and routed without firing a shot. While the man at first refused to give any information, van Clynne's direction that he be tied to a tree with a bonfire started at his feet soon changed his opinion.

Unfortunately, he knew nothing beyond the fact that the rangers had arrived here two hours before and taken boats out to meet the British warship, and that Captain Busch had arrived in a frenzy fifteen minutes ago, searching for a man named Smith or Gibbs.

_{-Chapter Thirty-four-}

Wherein, Jake and the Tories reach the
Richmond.

W
e
shall turn
back time to briefly summarize the actions of the rangers during the last two hours, as we have missed some coming and going while attending Claus van Clynne and his brave group of Connecticut men.

Earl Graycolmb, the villains' sponsor, would no doubt have been proud of the way the rangers rallied from their humiliating trials to arrive in grandeur at the obscure river landing west of Clark's Corners at midmorning. Their spirits had been quite restored, and even the sergeant felt his headache lifting slightly — until he dismounted.

A half-dozen large whaleboats had been secreted near the shore. The Tories needed only three, and even then could have fit several more men aboard each. After leaving a single man to guard the horses, they set out for their waterborne rendezvous. Though they were several hours early, they soon spotted a small boat headed upriver in their direction. Two volleys from the rangers were answered by a single pistol shot, and the sergeant quickly directed his men toward what proved to be one of the
Richmond's
boats.

The inexperienced rowers had difficulty coordinating their strokes at first, earning various shouts of derision from the midshipman in charge of the
Richmond's
craft. Finally, they began to make progress, and within an hour spotted the frigate, which lay south of Dobb's Ferry, a Tory stronghold.

The frigate
Richmond
was smaller and lighter than the immense ships of the line that stood at the head of Britain's naval might. She carried only thirty-two cannon and was designed to be manned by just over two hundred men; even a smallish third-rater would have twice as many guns and more than twice as many men, sitting a full deck higher in the water. Nonetheless, the
Richmond
was impressive in the comparatively narrow confines of the river, lording it over her escort the
Mercury,
a 20-gun craft with a checkered career whom she had captured earlier in the year off Antigua.

The rangers approached behind the lead of the
Richmond's
boat, rowing alongside the ship where a series of shouts and odd whistles welcomed them to climb aboard. Their weapons were ordered left behind; they would neither require them aboard ship nor be missing them very long, the boat's mate declared.

Jake leapt to one of the manropes and walked himself up the side of the ship to the entry port. This was a bit harder to do in practice than in theory, as the river was moving with particular vigor, rocking the ship back and forth. Jake mistimed his first leap, catching the painted yellow hull with one boot and one knee; unfortunately, this was the knee he had hurt several days before. His ligaments promptly reminded him he had not kept his promise to go easy on them.

Aboard ship, a sailor greeted the rangers with a contemptuous sneer. Obviously some sort of petty officer, though just as clearly not a gentleman, he had a brace of pistols in his belt and a thick naval cutlass hanging from a shoulder baldric that could have been stolen from a regimental drummer, given its ornate design and incongruity with the rest of his dress. This consisted of striped trousers that appeared loose enough for harem duty and a white shirt that had more stains than the average dishrag. If Jake were not playing the role of a Tory he would have found it difficult to maintain a straight face.

There was, nonetheless, a primitive efficiency about the man, as well as an air of toughness that perhaps owed more to the tavern district of the city where he had been recruited than life at sea. Jake nodded at him, and joined the other rangers loosely mustering at the side of the deck, next to a large, long crate covered by a canvas sheet. The identity of the item or items was concealed by the tarpaulin, which dominated that quarter of the deck and was guarded by two marines with loaded weapons.

A handful of other lobster-coats milled in the general vicinity, but they left the rangers to themselves, as if some native disease might infect them if they got too close. The sailors in the meantime went about their business without giving much notice to anyone, indiscriminate scowls pasted to their faces.

When the troop was all aboard, their sergeant attempted to muster them into order behind the tarpaulin. At that point, two officers approached. Had their feet not touched the broad deck planks they could scarce have had less authority about them. Nor was this air due solely to their elegant, long blue coats or the immaculate white knickers and vests. Their long, confident strides carried them quickly across the oaken deck, and the two marines assigned as their guard had to practically trot to keep up. The sailor who had shown the rangers aboard turned up at their right and announced in a loud voice that he had the honor of presenting his lordship Earl Graycolmb's Doughty Rangers to Captain John Lewis Gidoin and the honorable, if still somewhat young, Captain Sir George Valden.

The men could have been presented to King George himself with less fuss. The ranger sergeant, clearly awed, stepped forward and saluted.

"Captain. Captain. I am Sergeant Robert Lewis, t-temporarily in charge of Earl Graycolmb's Loyal — "

Captain Valden did not wait for Lewis to finish before demanding to know where in shitten hell — and worse — Busch was.

Lewis was not exactly a choir mouse, and had heard stronger language even on the Sabbath. Nonetheless, the spew of curses that emanated from Valden's mouth in connection with his question took the sergeant by surprise. In his view of the world, British gentlemen — and most especially anyone to whom the word "sir" was ascribed as an adjective — spoke in words that wouldn't flutter the meekest butterfly.

"No, sir, he escaped, but was unable to make it back to the rendezvous." Jake thought it wise not to mention his own adventures in jail, though that meant suppressing a desire to hear what new concoction of curses the inventive British captain might cobble together in his honor.

"See what comes of working with goddamn catch-fart Americans," Sir Valden said to Gidoin. "Mr. Washington undoubtedly knows the entire operation by now."

"Begging your pardon, sir," said Jake, "but General Washington is many miles away in New Jersey."

"Mister Washington," Valden corrected. The accordance of honor to the American general was a touchy subject for many British officers.

"How do you know where he is?"

A not inappropriate question, Jake thought to himself before telling Gidoin that it was common knowledge. "Even the farm waifs keep track of their hero," he added cheerfully. "It's a sport for them, just as many Londoners watch the king."

The parallel was not appreciated. Gidoin and Valden moved back a few paces to discuss how to proceed. More than Busch's failure to arrive, they were bothered by the disappearance of Major Johnson, the disguised marine officer who had been sent to help coordinate the operation. Johnson was supposed to have sent a second ranger group to the ship for the mission; both he and the Royalist had failed to show up as scheduled last night.

"Begging your pardon, sirs," said Jake, overhearing. "Our captain believed that Major Johnson was captured by the enemy. He was pursued and involved me in a stratagem to escape, but has not been seen nor heard from since. Our captain did not care a whit for him; we proceeded beautifully without him, and I daresay we will continue to do so."

Jake's voice was confident, and he spoke almost as if he were bragging about the Tory group's exploits. But he fully realized that the British officers would pay attention to the substance of what he said, not the style. He could thus fan their caution while seeming to boast of his group's fearlessness.

Sergeant Lewis, angry at being usurped and somewhat over his shock, stepped up to join him. "Sirs, begging your pardon, but my men and I are quite ready to proceed without Captain Busch or this Johnson fellow."

"Yes," added Jake. "I can supply all the intelligence we need about the chain. I walked out on it myself. There are no more than two dozen batteries concealed along the eastern shore north of Anthony's Nose, and I doubt that any of the American ships we saw are much bigger than this."