The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  "We can only hope, sir."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wherein, Jake catches his first glimpse of the great chain stretched across the Hudson.

  Have you killed many men?"

  The question caught Jake so completely by surprise that he fumbled for an answer. "One or two."

  "You are a poor liar, Smith, but that is in your favor at least," said Busch, patting his horse's flank as the animal picked its head from the stream. It was now well past midday; except for a brief lunch, this was their first stop since leaving the rest of the troop.

  "I recognized that about you the moment I met you. It's at the center of who you are. You're all surface, Smith; you're no more capable of lying than that squirrel on the ground there. Consider it your defining virtue."

  "Maybe it's a flaw," said Jake. He fingered his musketoon, its metal furnishings hot from the sun. Busch had his sword in his hand, and both men turned watchfully toward the road every few moments, guarding against attack.

  "You proved yourself when you saved my life," said Busch, "but there is a quality about you — I would have trusted you even without such an obvious demonstration."

  Jake said nothing.

  "Better a brave man incapable of disguising his feelings than a cowardly deceptor," continued the ranger captain, remounting. "I should have stayed and defended my farm," said Jake. "I was afraid then; I have to make up for it now." "Fishkill is filled with rebels." "My farm was nearer the Brinckerhoffs in Wiccopee than Fishkill." Busch nodded. "I know them; they are hot rebels, all against the king. You did well to flee." "I can't help but feel like a coward." "Then you'll have to find the chance to redeem yourself. Let's go; we've got no time to brood."

  The Tory captain prodded his horse back to the road as Jake boarded his own. They rode in hot fury for several miles, once more following an obscure trail that climbed upwards through the hills. Busch seemed to know this territory every bit as well as van Clynne, whose knowledge of farm lanes and city alleyways rivaled a bishop's command of church law. It was necessary that they ride in obscurity as well as with haste; their green coats and bearskin helmets made it clear that they were the enemy, and would give any Continental soldier a free pass to shoot at them. Yet Busch apparently felt it was a matter of honor to show the uniform, and undoubtedly would have anointed Jake honorary coronet and flag carrier if they had a second ensign for their unit.

  Jake was thankful that the late Major Johnson had supplied him with such a powerful horse; his own stomach was starting to ache from hunger but the animal seemed to have not a care in the world, gliding through the narrow path with an ease that Pegasus would have envied. The route, climbing steadily upwards, appeared to have been worn from a crevice in the hillside, strewn with massive boulders and flanked by a succession of gnarled trees.

  The country they were riding over was among the most beautiful in America. There are some philosophers who hold that Noah's Flood was precipitated by a vast melting of polar ice, which at God's call washed whole civilizations away in its path; if this is so, perhaps that same ice age carved away the canyons of the river, heaving apart the hills much the way the gap in floorboards is widened by freezing water during the winter.

  Jake did not realize that they had reached the top of one of those canyon sides until the river appeared below him. The view was so shocking that he felt his breath catch between his ribs, and even his stallion stopped short.

  In the first instant, he saw the strong blue ribbon of the Hudson and its frothing surface, the ancient arm of Nature reaching out toward her sister the Atlantic from the north. In the next moment he saw mankind's stubborn expression of power and will, an exertion borne of the proposition that all Americans should be free from tyranny, and a guarantee that Liberty would not be left to wither and die in the New World — the great iron chain that had been stretched across the river.

  Let the reader forget everything he knows of chains and rivers. The impression of the scene may be properly formed only after the mind is a complete blank, with distracting preconceptions and mistaken notions banished.

  Draw first the muscular body of water, foaming slightly at the edges with the great torrent of water that flows back and forth daily. Then sketch sharp lines of gray and black at the borders, angry boulders and rocks heaped among the bits of green and brown at the water's boundary. Add the taste and light smell of salt, for the river water here mixes with the sea.

  Green — there is much green, since the hills are rugged and the population sparse — dominates the edges of the picture. Huge trees — hemlock and chestnut, oak and evergreen — form a tall brotherhood halfway to heaven, interspersed with smaller but sweeter maple, some birch, and the occasional willow.

  Fort Independence lies well behind you and to your left; it cannot be seen because of the topography and trees. Two other forts lie across the river. To the left, there is Fort Clinton, which is not so much a fort as a series of earthworks with ambition. To the right across the Popolopen Creek and connected by a barely discernible wooden bridge lies Fort Montgomery. This is more substantial, as befits a place named after the Revolution's first hero, General Robert Montgomery. The general also happens to have been Jake's first mentor, and if one were able to turn back from the sights below and scan Jake's face, the smallest blush and tear might be seen, bare hints of the sad memory of his leader's death. Jake had watched him fall in the dark cliffs below Quebec; the impotence of that moment still rattled his limbs.

  Follow the line of the water now, finding the low shoreline just above Fort Montgomery. There is a thick, dotted line drawn diagonally across the river, a large brown ink stain such as one finds on a student's crib sheet for Greek. The mark ebbs upward and downward with the tide. It is thick and muscular but unnatural, and at first glance it appears not to have been made by humans but by some ancient god, Vulcan perhaps, who has decided to upset the order of things.

  Closer inspection reveals the line to be marked by sunken tree trunks, hewn into uniform logs. And staring a few seconds more reveals a darkness in the blue waves that links them, a black deeper than the depths, some strength beyond reckoning that can throttle even Vulcan's forge — strengthened arm, holding him in check.

  That is the chain. That is the band of iron formed by hundreds of men working for more than a year, around the clock. That is all that stands between the massive British armada even now gathering in New York harbor, and the vulnerable middle country of the American heartland.

  You are not fully impressed? Then stare at the banks until you realize that the small specks, the dots tinier than fleas scattered on the banks of the river near the terminal points, are not fleas but men. Wait until the sun's beams ricochet off the river to hit you full force, impressing not themselves but the dark iron barrier into your retina.

  "Even though the rebels built it," declared Busch from his horse, "it's an ingenious defense. Not even the Romans could have done better."

  "Can anything pass?"

  "Nothing," said the captain. "Even to try would be suicide, at least while the forts on the opposite shore are manned. But it blocks the rebels as well as us. You have heard of our galley, the Dependence?"

  "There was some talk of it at Stoneman's," said Jake, "but I wouldn't know it from Lord Howe's flagship."

  "It was a rebel galley we captured in New York. The ship is able to raid the shores below the chain with impunity, because the rebel sloops cannot come south to stop it."

  "The rebels have warships on the river?"

  "At least two in Poughkeepsie. But they are blocked by the chain."

  In fact, the patriot sloops were held back for other reasons — they were not finished, and they had neither crews nor prospects of attracting them. But Jake did not wish to correct the Tory's mistaken impression.

  "Does the chain have any weakness?" he asked instead.

  "That's what we're here to find out," Busch confided.

  Worried a little that they were about to plunge straigh
t off the cliff, Jake nodded. As Busch continued to scan the water below, Jake asked about the guard, making his voice tremble just slightly.

  "The drop from the mountain is so severe here the rebels have not bothered to post guards at the terminal point. If we are careful, no one will see us." Busch looked at the sun, well on its westward slide toward the fading hills where Hudson's crew sleeps in final repose, then swung off his horse. "Come. There isn't much time before sunset."

  "I don't mean to be impertinent," said Jake, dismounting, "but how in the world is an attack on Salem going to draw away the guard here?"

  "So you're a tactician as well as a scholar?"

  "I didn't say I was either," answered Jake as he followed Busch, tying his horse to a nearby tree.

  "The raid at Salem is not intended to draw the rebels from here, only the troops that would be used as reinforcements. The shifting of their reserves will add to their confusion and make our task easier. Take your guns and sword," said Busch, lifting a saddlebag over his shoulder and starting through the rocky bramble. "Be careful with your footing."

  "I thought you said there would be no guards."

  "It's best to be prepared." Busch added more lightly, "Don't worry. The soldiers in the area are a ragtag collection of ne'er-do-wells and malcontents, who will run at their own shadows."

  Though the ranger captain severely underestimated the personal bravery of many of the soldiers guarding the Highlands, it is true enough that the Continental and militia defenses of the area were not all to be desired. To adequately protect the Highlands, as well as wage war in the Jerseys and Ticonderoga, garrison Boston and Philadelphia, shadow Howe in New York — the reader can see by the verbiage alone that it would require an army several times what has ever been amassed by even the largest power on earth. And naturally, numbers alone will not suffice, as soldiers are only as good as their ammunition and supplies allow them to be.

  As strategically important as the Highlands are, they had until this point in the war received somewhat scant attention. General Washington sought to correct this situation by installing one of his boldest generals, Benedict Arnold, to head the department. Arnold, because of that wounded pride that has been his Achilles’ heel since the first day of the war, refused. Washington then turned to Old Put, the most experienced soldier of the war, to shore up the defenses and bring in reinforcements.

  The task is enormous. At the very moment Jake and Captain Busch began picking their way past berry bushes toward the river, Continental units were marching down double-time from New England to help bolster the defenses. The county militias had been called to alert as well. These last are chronically short of men, having great difficulty raising soldiers.

  We will not further interrupt the narrative to describe these problems in detail, nor will we pause to dissect such depressing problems as the small pox epidemic that is sapping the army's strength, for Jake and the captain have reached the edge of a promontory affording a perfect view of the forts across the river — and not quite a clear jump down.

  "Is there a path," asked Jake, after they had slid a short distance between the thick gray rocks, "or are we catapulting ourselves?"

  "We're doing neither. I only want to sketch the general layout of the battlements." Busch disappeared behind a tree branch, sliding down a small gorge.

  Jake hurried after him, half falling, half climbing; he found Busch brushing the dirt from his pants on a small, narrow opening that stood like a platform built on the side of the hill. The view north was cut off by a large rock outcropping, which meant most of the chain could not be seen, but west and south were clearly visible. There were masts off in the distance toward New York — the patriot spy wondered if they were British raiders, waiting for word from Busch.

  "We will go down via another route," said Busch, finishing the thought he had started before slipping. "I have to scout the area first. Keep guard." The captain reached into his bag and took out some thick artists' pencils and sketch paper, as if he were about to copy the Pieta at St. Peter's. "There were rumors that the rebels intended to place a boom here, but I do not see one. Can you? Are they building it by the shore?"

  It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on near the far shore, and Jake would not have said even if he could tell. He posted himself a few feet away, his carbine ready — though if some Continental group approached, he planned to train it on Busch, not the patriots.

  An old, misshapen elm jutted from the edge of the promontory like an overgrown bristle on a hairbrush. It was easy to climb, and Jake soon had a crow's nest overlooking the near hillside. The only thing patrolling the woods between here and the water seemed to be some hawks and a squirrel or two.

  The smoke of various encampments to the east and south wended its way lazily in the light afternoon haze. Peekskill, where General Putnam's headquarters were, lay too far inland for Jake to see from here. Likewise unseen, Continental Village, with its munitions depot and barracks, was located further east over the mountain and a little south of their backs.

  They were sitting in a perfect, hidden pocket, as isolated and peaceful as the Garden of Eden. The serenity was so tempting, Jake felt it would be easy to forget he was in the middle of a life and death mission, whose success could determine the outcome of the Revolution.

  But even Paradise was disturbed after the Fall, and Jake was shaken from his complacency if not the tree by the echoes of angry shouts and thick gunfire.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wherein, the source of the commotion is discovered, and Squire van Clynne is grossly insulted.

  Jake's first instinct was to jump from the tree and seek safer cover. But he quickly realized that the loud volley of musket fire was not only directed toward the river, but had originated nearly a mile away. The sharp, loud crack that made it seem so close was merely a trick of the echo produced by the rock-faced hills surrounding the water.

  The patriot spy climbed higher, the tree branches leaning over as he craned southward to get a better view. Busch came running up in the meantime, a pistol in each hand. He put one of the guns down and slid the other into his belt, climbing up after Jake.

  From the straining elm, the pair could just make out a small battery of men gathered on the shore to the south, reloading for another volley. But what were they aiming at?

  The answer came in the form of a thunderous roar similar to what must have been heard when volcanoes devoured ancient Pompeii. This was followed by a loud whistle, which ended in a tremendous thud, accompanied by a shaking so severe Jake thought an ax blade had struck the tree. A cloud of smoke on the river below the hills pointed the way to the source of the disturbance — it was the Dependence, the murderous galley Busch and his men counted on so highly.

  The boat was a peculiar beast. Though double-masted with triangular lateen sails, it strode through the waves on a caterpillars' set of oars. At her bow sat a thick, immense pipe, which erupted with fire and black smoke a second time as Jake watched.

  The pipe was a 32-pound cannon. Those unversed in the art of sea warfare will perhaps find a single weapon unimpressive. They should know first that, like land cannon, the rating of the weapon is rendered by the size of the shot it typically fires; a 32-pounder fires 32-pound balls, though it can be loaded with shot and other particularly nasty devices designed to obliterate masts, sails, and limbs. The average 32-pounder weighs perhaps 5,750 pounds, and measures a good ten feet. It is an entire order larger than the 24-pounder, which under the French Valliere system is considered the largest practical caliber for a land gun. The Eagle, the most potent ship in the British American fleet — and the admiral's flagship — could mount her 32-pounders only on the very bottom of the vessel; the massive ship quite shuddered when those guns spoke.

  Small wonder the rangers at Stoneman's had compared the galley to a fire-breathing dragon. St. George faced easier foes.

  Naturally, the British could not have designed and built such a successful and deadly vessel. The
Dependence — then named the Independence — was captured by the perfidious English during their siege of New York. Refitted and manned by British marines as well as seamen, she roamed the lower Hudson at will. Just at this moment, she was raining her shells in the general vicinity of Peekskill, much to the consternation of the local militiamen.

  Even though it was too far to see them, the soldiers' affiliation was obvious. They yelled and cursed aloud and fired volley after useless volley, never in unison, wasting their valuable powder and shot.

  "Excellent," said Busch in a hushed whisper. "We're right on schedule. Major Johnson could not meet us, but his portion of the plan has been put into effect."

  "Do you think he was captured like the corporal?"

  " Most likely he'll be waiting for us aboard the Richmond, " said Busch. "You probably helped him escape."

  "I'm glad," said Jake, who would have been happier still had he been able to "help" Johnson before he'd arranged the operation.

  The battle proceeded as if a staged play. The militiamen stopped shooting, finally realizing that their bullets weren't even reaching the river, let alone their target — or perhaps they ran out of powder. The battery at Fort Independence and several across the river had about the same effect. The Dependence, meanwhile, continued to give birth to a series of earth-shaking eruptions. The sounds of disarray and retreat echoed throughout the valley.

  "They're going ashore!" yelled Busch, descending a few feet in the tree and then jumping to the ground. "Let's go, Smith; we've no time to lose."

  We will let Jake and his Tory captain climb down from their trees as we travel several miles eastward, where we left the good squire Claus van Clynne attempting to recover from the effects of Major Dr. Keen's drug. The Dutchman has made considerable progress since we were last with him, managing to select the proper direction to return to the Loaded with Mischief Inn, where his horse was still tied.