by Jim DeFelice
At the roadside, his hands were bound and a long rope attached to his leg so he could not run without dragging half the company with him.
"Where is the rest of your troop?" demanded a short corporal, whose cheek had been seared some time ago by a sword or bayonet point. "What troop?" responded Jake. "The troop you were intending to assault the chain with, Tory." "I have no troop," said Jake. "I was not assaulting the chain." "What were you doing here then?"
"I am a traveler, on my way to White Plains. I had no money to stay at an inn, and tried sleeping in the woods, until you assaulted me. There is no law against that yet."
The reader can well imagine the contempt with which the corporal met this story. Jake nonetheless stuck to it loudly, and embellished it slightly for their lieutenant, a thin rod of a twenty-year-old who soon appeared from the woods. Without a uniform, the officer must treat Jake as a civilian and hand him over to the civil authorities — or decide he was a spy and shoot him on the spot.
Fortunately, the man seemed inclined toward the former, and Jake kept up his charade as he was marched up the road, in case Busch was still in earshot. The Rhode Islanders were rather pleased with themselves for having captured a man they assumed would eventually be judged a Tory criminal. They celebrated by prodding and pulling him along, greasing his way with epithets and curses, along with a good number of promises of what would become of him if their commander dared to turn his back a few minutes.
Under other circumstances, this show of spirit would have warmed Jake's heart, restoring his high opinion of the Continental army, or at least these troops, who had been mustered at the state's expense. Just now, however, he could have done with a little less enthusiasm — despite the torches, the path was dark and their pace brisk, which meant that he was continually in danger of falling; the soldiers' bayonets had been well sharpened, and pricked almost as sharply on the back of his neck as the dog's fangs had.
After they passed the hillside where Busch had told him to meet, Jake decided the time had come to reveal himself as an American officer. He had left the small glass token identifying himself as a messenger back at Prisco's for safety during his adventure; there was little chance the common soldiers would have realized what it meant in any event. His only hope was to persuade them to take him to their colonel, who would recognize him immediately.
But he must do all of this discreetly, in case the Tory leader was still hiding nearby. Jake stumbled in the dark and rolled on the ground as if he had fallen. Prodded by a pair of bayonets, he groaned about his knee. "Get the lieutenant," he whispered between the louder complaints. "I have to talk to him. Quickly."
The soldiers answered him in a loud voice that he must get to his legs himself or be run through.
"The lieutenant, quickly," hissed Jake. "Pretend to hit me, so that I lie unconscious. I have to see your colonel." "We'll hit you for real, Tory!" shouted one of the men. The other added threats and insults of his own. Jake got to his knees. "I'm a patriot, you idiot," he hissed.
The soldier responded with a heavy curse which would undoubtedly have elicited a like response from Jake — had he heard it. For one of the guards had decided he had suffered enough lies that night from the Tory villain, and smashed Jake across the back of the head with the butt of his rifle, sending him to Sleep's lush vale.
Jake awoke with a start as he was dumped unceremoniously on the dirt from the back of a wagon the Continentals had commandeered to transport him. He had been unconscious for nearly two hours, during which time the soldiers had taken him to a small hamlet east of Continental Village and north of Cortlandville. Largely ruined during a side skirmish related to the Battle of White Plains, the hamlet had once included a church, two stores and a small mill, set up on the creek. All but the church had been destroyed, though the wooden-planked bridge in front of the church's graveyard lately had been restored.
Besides the church, a large barn nearby remained intact; it was now used as common property by the few inhabitants who remained in the three or four houses across the creek on the main road.
While the area was familiar — Jake realized as he shook his head clear that he had come this way searching for Stoneman's farm-there was no time to wax nostalgic. His hands still bound behind his back, he was lifted from the dust roughly and dragged to the church.
His mother would have expressed no surprise over this, but he was not on his way to a service. The building had been appropriated by the Committee Against Conspiracies to be used as a prison for suspected Tories; the guard at the door received him with a ceremonial curse and a threat against his person if he did not comply with all the rules and regulations of the jail.
Still groggy, Jake protested that he was innocent.
"Save your story for Mr. Jay," said the jailer. "He'll hear your case next week. In meantime, you'd best watch your manners inside. As big as you are, there's them who are bigger."
And with that, the man put his foot on the disguised patriot's back and propelled him inside the open door, to the great amusement of his escorts.
When it had been used for services, the interior of the church had been simple, its most lavish ornamentation a thick red carpet that ran down the center of the austere wooden rows. A small lectern was mounted at one side of the altar, itself made of wood. Now that it had become a jail, its decor was plainer still. The furniture was gone, except for a few pieces gathered in a pile at the side of the interior. The carpet remained in place, dividing the room in two; even in the dim light supplied by some candles in buckets at the side of the room it was still a dark if soiled red, and gave the impression of a tongue resting in a mouth.
The long, narrow windows had been filled by boards that ran nearly to the ceiling. A pump organ, once the pride of the small congregation, still stood in the choir, but the door to this balcony was boarded and nailed shut. Heaps of bare hay were scattered along the walls, each topped with a ragged blanket-beds for the accused. A tumble of basins and pipes — amazingly, they seemed to be some sort of still, and perhaps accounted for the sweet, sick odor — stood at the far end of the altar area.
The church's original congregants had been Loyalists, most of whom fled the neighborhood after the Battle of White Plains. They had now been replaced by a mixture of mild Tories waiting examination, and more difficult men, ruffians and thieves whose allegiance belonged directly to the devil. One of the latter, a large, broad-shouldered fellow with a crooked nose and a strange stench about him, approached Jake menacingly, and said he would cut off his binds for a price.
"How much?" Jake asked, wondering to himself if his pocket pistol was still hidden in his vest.
The man leered without answering. He reached for Jake's hands and sawed through the braided rope as easily as if it were a woman's mending thread.
"I'll take your boots in payment, for starters," said the ham-handed brute. "We can work the rest out as we go."
No blow on the head, no matter how severe, could have made Jake acquiesce to such bullying. He saw that he had a large audience, and recognized at once that all were awed by the Tory giant. They would sooner plunge into a volcano than help Jake.
"These boots will never fit," he answered. "You're a bit fat in all the wrong places, beginning with your head."
The brute gave him a quizzical look in response, not quite sure that he'd been insulted until one or two of the bravest men in the church let their stifled guffaws escape. His lungs began pumping like a pair of hot bellows, forcing his chest larger. His shoulders puffed up as well, and his face turned so red it seemed to glow in the dim light of the church.
"You'll do as I say, or you'll suffer the consequences."
"Where did you ever learn such a big word?" Jake took a half-step backwards, preparing himself.
"I will teach you!" shouted the villain, slashing at Jake. He cut only the air — the patriot spy had dodged backwards. The brute swiped again and Jake retreated once more, this time falling against some members of the audience who
promptly tossed him back toward his tormentor.
Jake dove into a somersault, bringing his foot up to kick the giant in the chest and knocking him backwards. Rolling back over to his feet, the patriot launched another kick but missed; he fell onto his back. The brute dove at him blade first. Jake managed to roll away, sparks glinting from the knife as it scraped into the slate floor. A sharp punch staggered his attacker and sent his weapon to the ground, but the man was built like Goliath and quickly recovered. He managed to catch Jake's boot as he aimed a flying kick at him and hurled the American spy back into one of the onlookers.
Jake had no time to thank him for breaking his fall. The bully grabbed him up with both hands and hurled him again in the opposite direction. Once again a Tory was fortuitously placed, but Jake realized he could not count on such luck a third straight time. He pretended to be stunned until the villain reached down for him in a rage. Then Jake leaped with all his might into the man's chest, knocking him over. Two sharp kicks to the brute's groin ended the fight.
It also initiated wild applause from the onlookers. The man, whose name was Charles Wedget, had tormented them for days, lording it over each of the twenty-odd men here and taking their possessions. Each now took his own kick at him, spitting on the prone body and laughing at its agony. Wedget was quickly tied with the remains of the ropes that he had cut away not only from Jake but his other victims. His fetters increased the animosity toward him, as it could now be vented without fear of rebuttal.
Once he caught his breath, Jake stepped forward to stop the slaughter, saying it was not fair that an injured man be attacked by so many. That argument proved of little deterrence, and it was only when Jake suggested the guards would hear the commotion and investigate that the men began to lower their voices, if not the strength of their blows. "You're damn awful noble," said a voice from the back shadows. Jake couldn't quite place the familiar voice until he saw its plump owner step forward. "Caleb Evans," said Jake. "We feared you were dead." "It would take more rebels than are gathered in the province to kill me," declared the ranger corporal heartily.
"I'm glad you're alive," lied Jake, clapping him on the shoulder. "We're to be rescued tomorrow. Captain Busch has already planned it."
"Word has reached us," said Caleb. "One of the boys who brings us food is the son of a friend to our cause."
"I wonder," said Jake, picking up Wedget's knife and tucking it into his belt. "Is there a man named Johnson here?"
Caleb shushed him. "All of these men are loyal, but under duress, I doubt most could be trusted. Do not reveal yourself to them; say nothing you would want reported to the rebel courts." In a lower voice, he added, "Johnson missed our rendezvous and I fear he must be dead." Jake nodded solemnly. No better actor could have been found on a London stage. "Will the attack on the chain be called off?" "You don't know Captain Busch very well," said Evans. "Though he talked for an hour about how you saved him." "He repaid the favor tonight. Twice." "Then how were you captured?" "We were surprised afterwards. He escaped." Caleb nodded, and realizing that some of the others were watching, turned his attention to the fallen bully. "Take that, you bloody bastard," he said, kicking him. "You, sir," said one of the Tory prisoners to Jake. "What is your name?" "Jake Smith." "We all owe you a debt of gratitude. Come on, share a drink with us."
Now the celebration flew into high fury — the paraphernalia in the corner was indeed a still, built with the tacit approval of their jailers. The men had used a good portion of their rations to brew a repulsive-smelling swill so potent that Jake began to feel dizzy the moment a cup was poured for him. He was given the honor of the first sip, and reacted by coughing violently, much to the amusement of the other prisoners.
They, apparently, were well used to the stuff, and proceeded to drink it as easily as if it were pure stream water. Within half an hour the entire lot of them, Caleb included, were falling down drunk. Even Jake, who took nothing after the sip he spit out, felt the inebriating effect of the spirits.
Watching quietly from the corner as his fellow inmates passed out one by one, Jake began to feel great sympathy for the man who had started out to fix a rotted floorboard in his house and ended by constructing a brand new structure. Not quite twenty-four hours before, he had decided to forfeit a few hours of sleep to best some Tory rangers; he'd ended up discovering a major British plot against the key defense on the Hudson, then worked his way deep into it as much by accident as design. He was now a prisoner of his own cunning: none of the jailers would believe his story, and while John Jay certainly would — he and Jay had met twice before the war — the judge wasn't due for many days, by which time not only would the chain have been attacked but Schuyler would undoubtedly have concluded Jake's mission to fool Howe had failed. The general would have no choice but go ahead with his plans to abandon Albany and cede upper New York to the enemy, essentially surrendering the middle of the country to the king.
Which all in all might not be a bad idea, if Jake didn't find some way of stopping the Tories from destroying the chain.
Chapter Twenty
Wherein, Claus van Clynne discovers a cure for the common cold.
The effects of their homemade concoction were devastating — inside an hour the prisoners had melted into haphazard piles on the ground, as dead to the world as if run through with bayonets. Jake resolved to find the man responsible for the formula, and put him to work for the patriot cause.
Tomorrow. For now, he had things to do.
The plan was simple — sneak out, double back down the road to the point where van Clynne was waiting two miles away, tell the squire everything he knew of the scheme against the chain, and then come back and rejoin the sleeping prisoners. "Rescued" with them in the morning, he would be united with Busch just in time to sabotage his plans personally. That would still leave Jake three whole days to return to Albany with his message for Schuyler.
Jake's Dutch companion knew of a cosmic law to the effect that the simpler a plan sounds in outline, the more difficult it is to execute. Fortunately, van Clynne was not there to spread this particular wet blanket, and Jake was free to concentrate on the first leg of his plan with as much optimism as could be mustered in a room full of snoring drunks. He rose quietly, and made some movements he meant as decoys; finding no reaction, he walked to one of the piss buckets and relieved himself, taking a circuitous route back with still no sign that anyone else was awake. When a short burst of "Yankee Doodle" failed to raise a reaction, he decided it was time to leave.
How to go? The boards on the side windows were secured with enough nails to lay ten good-sized floors. The choir window, on the other hand, had been left open, and provided an inviting avenue of egress, except for the barricaded doorway to the loft.
Even standing on two buckets, the six-foot-two patriot couldn't quite reach the choir's bottom beam. Jake jumped, but his fingertips just barely grazed the wood before he fell back down to the ground. A second jump ended with similar results, except that he began to feel a little tenderness in his knee.
Two attempts launched with a running start got him closer, but it wasn't until he placed a discarded board from the corner on the buckets as a kind of reverse diving plank that he managed to grab hold of the thick piece of wood running along the bottom of the loft.
Jake rocked himself back and forth, building momentum for a swing over the four-foot railing. He had to let go of one hand to get enough of his body over; when he did so, he hung for a moment, his weight imperfectly balanced between his leg and his right arm.
Had the light been any better, he surely would have fallen, for he could have seen how precarious his position was. But there are certain times when it is best to operate in the dark, or at least semidarkness, and this was definitely one of them. After a breath to renew his strength, Jake pulled himself up and over the choir; he rolled as if a log clearing an obstruction.
And clanged his back on the organ chair, while simultaneously pricking his abdomen with Wedget's knife
, which was tucked into his belt. How he managed to stifle a foul curse at that moment remains one of the great mysteries of this tale.
Having attained the choir and assured himself that his wounds were only temporary if painful annoyances, Jake confronted a new problem. The window was devoid of glass, and passage through it could be accomplished as easily as one might walk through an open doorway — except that in so doing, one would fall twenty feet, directly into the lap of a sleeping sentry.
Not for the first time in his life, Jake wished for wings.
He looked upward from the window, hoping to find the roof within grasping distance. It was, had his arms been fifty feet long. Nor were the branches of nearby trees any closer. But further examination presented him with another escape route — the facade itself.
Any reader who ever has an option in this regard should choose to be shut up in a church built of stone or brick, instead of one made of wood. Wooden churches can be made to look considerably more fetching, but their sides do not present many hand- or footholds, making it difficult to climb down from second-story windows.
Which is what Jake now proceeded to do. We will not increase the suspense by telling you precisely how many times he slipped, nor mention that the sentry stirred momentarily just as he stepped out the window. It is probably of only passing interest that Jake's hands became unbearably sweaty about halfway down. But perhaps it is not completely irrelevant that his waistcoat snagged on the clapboard edging when he was but seven or eight feet from the ground, just at the moment he was pushing off the facade to jump and run for the woods.
Jake swung around crazily, caught at the middle and dangling over the ground, hanging by the barest thread in a pose more than a little reminiscent of Icarus's the second before he crashed to earth.