The Iron Chain (7 page)

T
he girl's name
was Rose McGuiness, and contrary to the evidence of her lush lips and well-shaped-if-thin body, she was closer to fifteen then eighteen. She was also a devout patriot, as was her fiancé-to-be. The same age as Rose, the young man was a blacksmith's apprentice who had been put to work forging the great iron chain across the Hudson River north of Peekskill.

"It's all they talk of now, destroying the chain," sobbed the girl, tugging at her reddish-brown curls. "They'll kill my poor Robert, I know they will
."

Rose's fiancé would be quite safe, Jake assured her. Most of the craftsmen working on the chain were actually ensconced in Poughkeepsie or New Jersey, their wares transported after they were fashioned. The few who had to work at the forts were well protected, and Jake mentioned breezily that the posts were nearly impenetrable to attack.

She could not see that he had crossed his fingers, and might not have noticed in any case. Her eyes had gathered that dewy glow that is the first warning of lovesickness; her body, so sharp and rebellious not ten minutes before, was now soft and compliant in Jake's arms. Indeed, her fiancé faced a considerably more potent threat from this patriot than from the entire British army.

"Rose, I guarantee that we will not allow them to attack the chain," Jake told her, his voice as sincere as it had ever been in his life. "But you must do nothing now. Trust me when I tell you that I will deal with the Tories sharply and completely. In the meantime, go about your business as if nothing has happened. It is imperative that they have no warning before our forces surprise them."

There was a look in his eye that no poet could describe, unless that poet were inspired by the muse Freedom herself. Determination was not the half of it; his soul had opened up, and his will flooded into the girl's. There was no chance for her to disobey his words.

But let us not get too fancy describing eye contact. Suffice to say that Rose nodded weakly. Jake gave her flushed cheek a kiss to seal the matter, then put on his best Tory face and walked around the side of the barn to attend the meeting.

As gruff and obnoxious as any noncommissioned officer in the regular army, Sergeant Lewis greeted Jake's story of his recruitment and subsequent ambush with a sneering grunt.

"I've got business to attend to. Captain Busch can sort yourself out when he arrives," said the sergeant, turning to the horses.

This would have been fine with Jake, except that the other Tories immediately took their cue from his contempt. The hostility escalated as their leading questions turned to outright accusations.

"I think I've seen you before," said a tallish bald fellow, twisting his words so that it sounded as if he'd spied Jake murdering a child.

"Where would that be?" countered the disguised patriot.

Instead of answering immediately, the man walked to the center of the barn and picked a sword off the table.

"In New York, at a rally for Washington," said the Tory ranger, who pretended to test the blade's sharpness with his finger.

"You're mistaken," said Jake. He folded his arms in feigned disgust. The inquisition was picked up by a fellow nearly as tall as he was, and half again as wide, who came and stood next to him, hands on his hips.

"Your story of being challenged by rebels smells a few days old," said the man. Like most of the others, he wore a dark green coat — the official uniform of a Loyalist ranger. "Where is Captain Busch if it is true?"

"Captain Busch met his corporal. He told me to come on alone," said Jake. "I have enough sense to follow orders."

"He has a rebel stink about him, I'll warrant that," said a third irregular. "Someone with a name of Smith — as likely as finding a pig wearing a dress."

"Your wife speaks ill of you as well," Jake said.

Finally an answer that was well received by all but the subject of the rebuttal.

"I was told that this was a competent group," added Jake boastfully, "but I think the rebels would laugh the moment they saw your ill-fitting coats. Or is laughter your weapon of choice?"

"Best watch your manners," said an older man in the audience. "You're new here. A few of us are veterans of the war with the French and our bravery is well proved."

"In that war, certainly," said Jake, who tempered his mocking tone. "But with respect, we're no longer fighting dance masters; we're after real game."

"And you're here to show us the way, are you?"

"I've come just in time. What have you done till now? Upset a hen house or two?"

"Wasn't it our information that set the raid on Peekskill?" said the older man cheerfully. "And who stole Old Put's own fodder from under his nose three times last month? If his troops are boiling their shoes for meat, it's us he has to thank."

"We could beat the rebels entirely on our own," said another. "We don't need the
Dependence
or any other help."

"What's the
Dependence?"

"A fire-breathing dragon. To the rebels at least."

The group laughed even more heartily than before. No one offered further information, and Jake thought it best not to press. The
Dependence
must be a British vessel that supported the Tories on their raids.

The talk proceeded in like manner until after 4 a.m., with Jake pretending to doubt the rangers' abilities so he could gather information from their boasts. The men gradually warmed to him, and his manner likewise eased. To hear them tell it, they were a constant threat to the Americans, a half-victory away from routing Putnam's troops from the hills. While their claims were no doubt exaggerated, Jake had good reason to believe they had some level of competence, based on what he had seen of Busch and Evans. They were at least well armed: an assortment of weapons and cartridge boxes were piled along two tables at the center of the barn, well polished and waiting.

As time passed, the men began to grow somewhat anxious about their leader. Their speculation was studded with bits of information about Busch and his background, adding to the portrait Jake already had received. Here was a man, though not as well born or widely known, to rival the infamous Colonel Robinson.

Patriotic readers familiar with Dutchess and Westchester counties in New York will remember Robinson as having been born in the shadow of Sugarloaf Mountain in Philipstown. Denying his free birthright, he raised his own regiment for the British; the once-respected Tory loomed large in the imaginations of men on both sides of the war, and his defection to the lower party did more damage to the American forces than his troops.

Busch, too, had grown up in the area and was well known among the inhabitants of the riverside farms. His father owned considerable acreage, but it was unclear from the gossip exactly how much or where. The captain was single, and in his early twenties as Jake already had surmised; a youthful tragedy had claimed his sister's life and his mother had died soon afterwards. Many of the local inhabitants did not yet realize where his loyalties lay, and he had not bothered to enlighten them, knowing that ambiguity would aid his activities.

A major assault was planned within the next day or so, but whether or not it involved the chain Jake could not tell and dared not directly ask. The Tories made his job of spying simple with loose tongues and eager curiosity, but Busch apparently was very guarded with information about their pending mission; not even Sergeant Lewis, who was presently in charge, could answer the men's questions about it.

When Busch finally entered the barn, it was nearly dawn. He had lost his hat; his face was worn with fatigue and the corners of his eyes showed the first marks of age, worry tearing at his brow. But there are certain men upon whom Care bestows nobility, and Busch was one of them; he walked into the barn with such a forceful bearing that even Jake found himself jumping to attention.

"Johnson missed the rendezvous," he announced curtly. "Something has happened to him and the escort sent to meet him. Caleb and I were attacked by a second rebel force, this time militia."

Busch scanned the barn until his eyes rested on Jake. He gave him a quizzical look, and for a moment Jake worried that the Tory commander had somehow discerned he was responsible for Johnson's death.

"I am afraid Caleb has been captured," Busch said finally. He gave Jake a nod, and the patriot realized Busch was remonstrating silently with himself for not taking his brave new recruit along on the second leg of his night's mission. "The rebels were hot on our heels and I only just escaped."

There was a general outpouring of sympathy for the corporal; he appeared much better liked than the sergeant. A few men asked if they would rescue him.

Busch silenced the talk with an outstretched hand. "If he is captured, they will take him to the old church. Perhaps Johnson has been taken there as well. We will proceed as originally planned and hope the
Dependence
holds to its schedule. When we have completed our attack, we will come back and rescue them. Tomorrow, not today."

"We can't leave him there, sir," said one of the rangers.

"We won't. I guarantee that he will be rescued, but only after our raid. They are not in immediate danger. As for the troop Johnson was supposed to meet, they will have to see to their own safety."

"If the rebels take Caleb to Fishkill, sir, it will be difficult to free him," said Lewis.

"We will hear of it, I daresay, from our sources, well in advance. In the meantime, we have more important problems to concentrate on. Johnson's loss means today's attack will be with less men. We will leave in an hour, no more."

The men began to murmur that they had not yet been told of the destination. Busch smiled.

"You see why I do not give out all of the details of our plans?" he asked rhetorically. "What if Caleb knew everything? We'd all be in danger. Not even Johnson knew all our plans, and he is a marine officer in His Majesty's service."

Busch paused for just a moment longer, adding to the drama. No regimental commander, it seemed to Jake, had a better measure of himself or how he impacted on his men.

"Salem. We're going to attack Salem near the Connecticut border. It will be a profitable engagement, I warrant.

The pronouncement was met with general approval, Jake nodding with everyone else. But the target baffled the American spy — the small hamlet of Salem was many miles inland, on the opposite end of the county from the river. If they were undertaking a raid with the help of a British vessel, as seemed likely from Busch's reference to the
Dependence,
why were they going so far away? Why would a marine officer be involved? And what of the chain.

But there was no leisure to contemplate these questions, or craft some manner of clandestine inquiry. The barn door burst open, and rather than the patrol of American militia Jake might have wished for, one of Busch's uniformed irregulars appeared.

"Captain, I've found Major Johnson's horse," he declared, sweeping his hand in a bold gesture. A Tory behind him led the gray-dappled stallion Jake had left near the road into the barn. "He was hitched to a tree at the edge of the woods."

^{-Chapter Eight-}

Wherein, a gift horse is looked in the mouth.

W
hile Jake was
greatly pleased to finally have the mystery of Johnson cleared up — and to find that he had inadvertently harmed the British operation — his joy was nonetheless mitigated by the untimely discovery of his horse.

The gathering of Tories did not know he had killed Johnson, of course. Nor did they yet realize that Jake had ridden the horse here. He therefore had the option of denying everything merely by remaining mute, and bluffing the rangers with some story about having had his mount shot out from under him on the way to the farm.

But that path was fraught with eventual danger. For instance, he might have to explain why he had neglected to include the incident in detailing his other exploits that night. He would also be testing Busch's memory of the animal he'd been riding. So Jake plunged in a direction that offered immediate liabilities, but presented the prospect of safety once these were cleared.

"What are you doing with my horse?" he exclaimed with mixed innocence and alarm, rushing toward the animal.

"Your horse?" answered the soldier who had led the animal in. He turned to Busch. "Captain, I swear to you that this is the animal Major Johnson was riding last month when we met with him. I'd know him, sir, if I met him in a blinding snowstorm on the Boston Commons."

Now the reader will realize that no stallion in the continent is so distinct as to be unlike any other; nevertheless, the dark gray markings on the lighter gray field of this animal were relatively unique. Not only Busch but Sergeant Lewis examined the horse; both men agreed with the soldier who had led him in.

"How long have you had him?" demanded Busch.

"I acquired the horse from a gentleman a day ago," said Jake. "The terms were favorable, though he requested that I be discreet. He did not give his name.”

"Explain yourself."

Jake described Johnson carefully, right down to the cravat haphazardly tucked into his shirt. They had fallen in together while traveling down from Wiccopee, and through certain signs Jake had been given to understand that the man was British or at least loyal to the king. Jake told him in confidence that he was "heading south"; the man claimed to be going in the same direction, but had to dally in the neighborhood a while longer. It would be most convenient, he hinted, if an arrangement could be made regarding their horses.

"He said at first that his horse was tired from its exertions. When I examined the animal I saw that he was in fine shape. I got the better end of the deal by far, though I sensed the man was in some difficulty."

"Sounds like a convenient story to me," said the Tory whom Jake had teased so effectively before.