The Iron Chain (30 page)

"How many ships?" asked Gidoin.

"I couldn't say precisely, sir, as it was dark and the masts tended to blend together. They were cowardly in any event, hiding upriver."

To every question the British commander asked, Jake replied with a boast and well-turned lie, making light of the defenses on the one hand, while greatly multiplying them on the other. His was the work of the greatest alchemist, his tongue a veritable philosopher's stone, creating from whole cloth — nay, from discarded wool — an army and navy several times the size of the largest force available on the continent. To order an attack against it, the British commanders would display a degree of stupidity unusual even for their breed. Even the marine guards accompanying them shuddered with Jake's description.

Jake continued on blithely, as if unaware of the effect of his words. Indeed, he stated quite clearly that he was ready to lead the force himself, and volunteered to command a vanguard of forlorn hope that would launch itself in rowboats, swim the thirty or forty leagues to the chain under fire from the shore batteries, climb past the two rows of raft obstacles and dive on the twelve-inch-thick chain, sawing it in half with the files they'd carry between their teeth.

"We already have a bloody-damn-well-conceived plan," said Valden in a withering voice.

"And what is that, sir? I stand ready to take my commander's place at the head of the column."

The ship's master cast a cautious eye toward the sky and bade Valden step away for a private consultation. They began discussing not only the defenses but how the bomb canoe — Jake heard the words but as yet could not make sense of them — would perform if the storm kicked up.

"I'm in charge here," muttered the sergeant to Jake under his breath. "Best remember your place."

"Captain Busch chose me to go with him to the chain, not you," said Jake defiantly. "I'll not back down before you, or before General Washington and his horde of rebel thieves."

Five more minutes of this, the patriot spy thought to himself as he folded his arms over his chest in mock satisfaction, and they'll pack me off to Bristol to recruit regulars.

Gidoin and Valden broke off their conference. They stepped forward and addressed both Jake and the sergeant, much to the latter's consternation.

"In light of the situation," said Valden, "we are going to delay the attack until tomorrow evening. In that time, perhaps Major Johnson or your Captain Busch will reach us."

"Begging your pardon, sirs," said the sergeant, desperate to boost his image, "but why should we wait for either of them? I am ready to lead the way."

"Johnson planned the diversionary assault on Peekskill," said Valden. "It's his to lead. I'm not committing my marines to a donkey ass plan under the command of goddamn colonial half-wits."

Jake turned quickly to the men. "Who will join me?" he thundered. "Who will come with me for the honor of God and king? Who will defy certain death at these bastards' hands, face down their guns, and defy their bullets! I have seen their defenses and I don't care what the odds are — I say death is a noble thing in the name of our cause!"

Not surprisingly, no one stepped forward.

"Then I'll go myself!" he declared boldly. "I'll swim there if necessary and beat the damn Americans with my bare hands."

"Brave words. I could hear them halfway across the river."

All eyes on deck turned toward the entry port, where a man in shirt sleeves had just hauled himself up. His hair waved in the breeze, and his cheeks were flush, not with the exertion of hauling up the side of the ship but with anger.

"Arrest him," said Captain Busch, in his voice a barely controlled fury. He jabbed his finger at Jake as he walked across the deck. "The man is an American agent."

_{-Chapter Thirty-five-}

Wherein, Jake's true allegiance is revealed, and he gets all
choked up about it.

Y
ou damnable bastard
," said Busch as his short but rapid strides brought him to his enemy. "You are as evil a traitor to king and peace as any man in this land."

There was a moment of shocked stillness on the deck, perfect quiet as the rangers, the ship's complement, even the birds and animals of the surrounding shores, all stopped what they were doing and stared at the accused. Busch, whose fury welled so greatly that he was unable to continue speaking, moved his hand to slap Jake across the face. But Jake's reflexes were too quick for him, grabbing the arm and stopping it mid-air.

"I treated you as a brother," said Busch as he broke his hand free. "I trusted you."

The glare between the two men was as palpable as an iron rod. As yet, Jake had made no comment, offered no defense. He had faced such difficult moments before, and knew the best strategy was to continue the bluff through. But never had the impulse to throw off his disguise and declare his proper allegiance been so strong.

"What the hell is this about?" demanded Sir George Valden.

Busch's glare of scorn momentarily mixed with a hint of regret before he turned to Valden.

"I am Captain John Busch of His Lordship Earl Graycolmb's Rangers," Busch said. "Arrest this man as a traitor."

It was the sergeant, of all people, who spoke in Jake's defense.

"He led a prison break, and helped get us here." The sergeant's eyes went back and forth, from one man to the other. "How can you be a traitor?"

"The prison break was arranged," said Busch. "A man named Wedget told me all."

At that, the rangers began to murmur, and a few even to laugh, saying they knew of Wedget, and believed Caleb and Jake's story that he had been left behind for bullying the others. Busch put up his hand to silence them. "He has cleverly arranged everything, including an attempt on my life. His name is not Smith, it's Gibbs."

Until that moment Jake had been undecided on his course, content to let Busch state his case so it might be more easily refuted. But as Jake saw the British officers eying him suspiciously, he realized that even if they hadn't been by nature inclined to prefer a captain's suspicious word above the faith of an army of privates, they would certainly detain him for further investigation. Inevitably he would be found out.

And so, sensing that the locks about to be slapped around his arms were held by Fate herself, Jake decided he would go to his death as a man, not a rat shrinking in the corner. Along the way, he would do what he could to preserve his mission, which now depended on van Clynne and Rose, and General Putnam's troops.

"I did not arrange for an attempt on your life, nor did I work with others," Jake said solemnly. "Chance put us together. I admit I took full advantage of it."

Jake undid the buttons on his green coat and threw it to the deck, kicking it away with a disdainful push of his boot. "I am Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs, a member of General George Washington's army. I demand to be treated as a prisoner of war, as I am entitled."

"You are entitled to nothing," declared Valden. "You came aboard as a spy."

"You betrayed your country and your king," said Busch.

In waistcoat, bareheaded, unarmed — save for the elk knife still concealed in his boot — Jake addressed the entire ranger troop, speaking as boldly as old Sam Adams would have.

"It is you who have betrayed your country. You would give up your birthright to a man you have never seen, and who regards you as a farmer regards the ants beneath his feet."

Busch spit on the deck. "You are beneath contempt, aligning yourself with criminals."

"It is your allegiance that puzzles me," said Jake, his voice a mild, calm rebuke. "A man with as much intelligence and courage as you ought to be fighting against the people who would make us slaves, not acting as their lapdog."

"The Devil speaks with a golden tongue," said Busch, his words equally soft.

The reader should not misinterpret Jake's next actions as the ship's captain and Valden did. For when two marines stepped up to grab him, Jake meekly let his arms be taken, and did not offer more than token protest as his hands were slapped in a set of iron cuffs. Before being searched, he volunteered that there was a knife in his boot.

The patriot spy surrendered so easily not because fighting would have been futile — certainly he would have been overpowered eventually, but by grabbing a nearby cutlass he might have taken a half-dozen Loyalists and perhaps one or both of the officers before being slain. Jake gave in because he wanted to turn his surrender to the patriots' advantage. He went easily to the captain's cabin, and gave a full if utterly false accounting of his operations, saying that he had been assigned by General Washington to spy in the area, though he had as yet been unable to report. He studiously avoided giving any impression that Old Put knew there was a plot afoot, hoping that the details he had already given Rose would be enough to foil it.

Jake said he'd been due to make a report the previous night, but had been unable to reach his contact in Dobb's Ferry. He named a prominent Tory there — a man he knew was loyal to the king, not the Americans — as his contact. He also took full credit for Johnson's disappearance, deciding that it was best to solve that mystery for the British before they complicated things by trying to do so themselves. When Captain Gidoin asked who his accomplices were, Jake had a simple reply: "If I had assistants, would I have been so easily found out?"

Busch, confident now that he had squelched the rebel design to foil him, attended to his plans with Valden and the captain of the
Dependence,
Lieutenant James Clark. Clark had been a mate on the
Phoenix
in December when the galley was captured, and as customary with the navy, given command of the prize.

The rangers were still shocked by the announcement that a man they had looked toward as a leader had been discovered a traitor. Taken together, the events of the last two days had greatly undermined their faith in the British, and while they found themselves now committed on this path, they could not but fear they had chosen unwisely. Nearly every soldier, even when reminded of the bounty offered for his allegiance, would have sworn on three Bibles that he would have preferred the war never happened.

Not so their leader. Busch emerged from his conference and strode across the deck to his men with firm resolve, projecting the strenuous image of a leader with a full grip on Future's throat. If he reproached himself for having misjudged Gibbs, there was no sign of it. If he felt betrayed — if indeed some part of him wanted to hear from Gibbs that he was indeed the man he'd taken him for — no one would have guessed from his manner.

A company of marines was mustered alongside the rangers behind the tarpaulined supplies, waiting for their commanders to give them their last instructions. As Busch walked forward, he caught a glimpse of Jake being led from the captain's quarters under guard. He swung to his right, pulled his hands together at the hips of his green ranger coat, and addressed a knot of sailors standing near the main mast.

"I need a strong man who is not afraid of becoming a hero to posterity," said Busch without blushing. "You, sailor, what is your name?"

The man, a tall fellow from Devonshire, smirked a bit before answering. It was obvious he thought the colonial captain full of himself. "Able Seaman Williams, sir."

The hard look in Busch's eye caught the seaman off guard, and he took an involuntary step backwards. His face turned as red as the sun that sets over the Indian Ocean.

Williams fell in without so much as a glance at his comrades. Busch — who stood a full six inches shorter than him — had transfixed the man by some innate power.

Jake, watching from near the cabin, could not help but smile. The show had undoubtedly been put on for his benefit, but that did not make the figure strutting across to the knot of red and green coats any less impressive.

"We will board the boats shortly," Busch told the troop. "We will proceed with the
Dependence
to the far shore, where we will wait until twilight. When the shadows are long enough, we will move ahead and engage the rebels directly below their fort near the Peek Skill Creek. The sergeant will coordinate the attack on land, and we will have the support of Lieutenant Clark and his craft. Myself and Seaman Williams will proceed upriver once the assault is launched. We will arrive just after their patrols have retired; I timed it myself the other day.

"You see the canoe lashed there on deck," he added as two sailors pulled back the canvas before them to reveal the odd looking but deadly craft. "It will be a surprise for the rebels, I warrant."

The vessel was a cross between a native dugout canoe and a pregnant Franklin stove. A cone made of tin and painted black covered the entire front half of the canoe, its leading edge shaped into a triangular wedge like a rounded pyramid. The second half of the canoe was more familiar, though a little wider than normal, apparently to add extra buoyancy.

The tin canister at the front contained a massive amount of gunpowder, which would be set off by a special waterproof charge contained in a glass tube. It was this charge that was to do the work against the river's iron chain; Busch would lash the canoe against the floats and set it off. Once the cable was broken, the British fleet would be free to proceed upriver at its leisure.