The iroh chain ps-2

by Jim DeFelice

  Some hoarse shouts nearby quickly sobered him. The patrolling whaleboat had been literally blown to splinters, and its soldiers were now clinging to the rocking chain as if it were a life raft.

  "Make your way towards me," shouted Jake, gingerly going out to help them. The British sailor and one of their comrades had been lost in the confusion, but otherwise their injuries were light.

  Jake pointed them back to shore and helped the stragglers. As the way became easier, his thoughts turned to his mission to Albany; he must leave tonight if he were to reach General Schuyler before his deadline. He also thought of the woman he had left there some weeks before, Sarah Thomas. She would welcome him gladly when he arrived.

  Distracted by her image in his brain, he did not notice the man with the rifle leveled at the shivering regulars who had reached shore ahead of him.

  "Stand back," said the old man, his shoulders against the rocky crag on the narrow bank. "Stand back or I'll kill you all." Jake knew who he must be at once. "Mr. Busch — don't shoot at us. We're on your side." "Side? What side?" "The patriot side," said Jake. "I don't know what you're talking about. You are all trespassing on my land."

  They outnumbered him, and if they rushed him would surely overcome him. The rifle was loaded though, and even in the dim light he surely would not miss hitting someone.

  "We've come to try and help you find your daughter," offered Jake. "We heard she was lost."

  "Annie? Yes, I cannot seem to find her. She and John have been missing since supper. It's John — the boy always gets into trouble. He is a rebellious scoundrel — if I told him to walk he would run."

  "Mr. Busch, please put the gun down," said Jake, taking a step forward. His injured feet made him wince with pain, but at least his eye had opened and he could see normally. "It'll only scare your daughter when we find her."

  The old man looked down at the weapon in his hands, as if confused at how it had gotten there. His attention was turned long enough for Jake to spring at him. But the gun was surrendered meekly. "My daughter?" asked the elder Busch. "She's gone. She died in the river. John, too." "John, too?" "Yes, sir."

  The old man's face erupted with tears at the fate of his family, whether for the first or last time, neither Jake nor anyone else could tell.

  In his defense, Van Clynne felt it was only fair to point out to sweet Jane that had this Rose followed his directions as to the proper path to take, she would not be in her current predicament. “This is what comes of questioning a Dutchman's counsel, my pumpkin."

  "Claus, you have to rescue Rose," said Jane. "You must."

  "Well, yes, I will do so without fail," said the Dutchman, who in truth was as interested in liberating his coins as the girl. His opinion of Rose had shifted slightly because she was a friend of Jane's — but only slightly. "If the general will lend me my troop back."

  "Granted," said Putnam, who was prepared to do much more to get the squire out of his powdered white hair.

  "But Dr. Keen said you must come alone — "

  "Tut, tut, my dear; one doesn't go into the lion's den unarmed. Undoubtedly our doctor friend has some surprise in store for me, some stupendous-sized leech which he plans to twirl around my head. My men here will sneak through the brush and wait until I have flushed out his plot. It will undoubtedly be clever," added the Dutchman as an aside, "but the inherent limitations of the British intellect will leave a large gap for us to proceed through."

  Jake and the soldiers helped the grief-stricken old Mr. Busch up to his farm, comforting him as best they could with the aid of some medicinal rum kept by the fireplace. The lieutenant colonel had just finished wrapping his wounds in bandages and taken a sip of the rum himself when there was a sharp knock at the door. One of the soldiers answered it to discover two men sent by General Putnam.

  "We were told to fish Colonel Gibbs from the river if necessary," said one of the privates, "and return him before the general is drowned by verbiage."

  "Do you understand those orders, sir?" asked the other, whose face betrayed the fact that he himself did not.

  "Oh, absolutely," said Jake, laughing. "It means the general has made the acquaintanceship of my good friend, Claus van Clynne."

  Jake borrowed some shoes and Mr. Busch's horse to ride to the house on the Fishkill road where the general had made his temporary headquarters. Along the way he found Private Martin, who claimed to have been blown there by the bomb blast. While that seemed highly unlikely, the Connecticut private could not remember what had happened if not that. In fact, he could not remember much of anything at all, including his adventure on the river or his brief sojourn under the command of "General" van Clynne.

  Nor did he remember having been among the privates that Old Put had routed from a New York City wine cellar on the eve of the British invasion a year before.

  "I'm sure I would remember that, sir," muttered the distressed soldier as General Putnam questioned him about the incident. In Jake's opinion, that was the one thing he might well remember, his profuse headshaking to the contrary.

  "Well, what do you remember?" demanded the general.

  "Being inoculated against the pox, sir."

  At that, Old Put turned several shades of color. "Get back to the damn hospital then. Get!" The general turned to Jake as Martin vanished through the door. "These damn inoculations. Half my army is sick, and the other half is guarding the damn fools." "Begging your pardon, sir," said Jake, "but the Dutchman?" "The Dutchman?" "Claus van Clynne. I understood from your message that he was here."

  "I sent him off with some men to look after a kidnapping. Frankly, I was glad to get rid of him. This van Clynne — he claimed to be your partner."

  "He has served lately as my assistant," said Jake. "He has his own ideas about his importance. He has saved my life now on more than one occasion, though I'm not sure I would admit it in his presence."

  "I doubt he would give you the chance," said the general.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Wherein, the despicable Dr. Keen makes one last display of his prodigious talents, to Squire van Clynne's great distress.

  Van Clynne's plan for foiling Dr. Keen was a classic snare maneuver, during which he would offer himself as temporary bait while his Connecticut soldiers closed the noose. After positioning his men in the woods near the cottage, he snuck back to the roadway and prepared to proceed toward the cottage.

  At this point, sweet Jane threatened to become a barrier to the plan, wanting to join him. Van Clynne had to turn his considerable powers of persuasion on her, assuring her that in the first place he was well armed — the red ruby dirk was hidden up his sleeve and two tomahawks were secreted at the sides of his coat — and in the second, she would perform a much more useful function by remaining here.

  "Doing what?"

  "Well, you shall be our reserve," proclaimed the Dutchman. "Ready to swoop in like winged Victory herself at the moment of denouement."

  "That is not a job," said Jane. "Rose is my friend and I want to help rescue her. I can and I shall."

  Van Clynne recognized the strong bent in her eyes and knew it was as useless to argue with her as to rant against the lingering thunder.

  Not that he wouldn't try either.

  "Well, then," said the Dutchman, "you must sneak into the coach and attempt to retrieve my coins, if that's where they are. You can already consider them part of our joyful estate. As the wedding proverb says, 'What's yours is yours and what's mine is yours,' or something along those lines."

  The squire was in fact endeavoring to send her from harm's way, as he supposed the coach would be far from the line of fire. Jane nodded at his advice that she must postpone her advance until he had given her a clear signal-a Mohawk war whoop. He demonstrated once to make sure she knew the sound.

  "That's not a Mohawk call," she objected. "It's Huron."

  Van Clynne frowned and made a note to instruct her on her future duties as faithful wife when he found himself at greater leisure. />
  Had Keen not already detected the Dutchman's presence thanks to an elaborate system of strings placed further north on the highway, the war whoop would have fully alerted him. In any event, he was well prepared when van Clynne rode slowly down the road to the ruined cottage, glanced around the environs, and then entered the small building. The fire had taken away three-quarters of the roof and a good portion of the rear wall, but otherwise it was reasonably intact, if sooty.

  Fully expecting a trap, the Dutchman examined the shadows carefully. Then he set a candle on the stump of a stool before the fireplace and lit its wick with a bit of flint. The rain had ceased, and the stars were making an effort to contribute some illumination, but even so the ruins were dark. Still, there was more than enough light to reveal van Clynne's purses on a charred table in the center of the room.

  The Dutchman's joy at discovering that they contained all of his coins was interrupted by Keen's voice behind him.

  "And so, Mr. Clynne, we meet again."

  "The van is an important part of my name," snapped the Dutchman, tucking the money inside his coat as he turned around. Even the dim candle before the hearth had enough light to reflect off the polished barrel of the weapon Keen held — an ancient though apparently operative matchlock musket, whose smoldering fuse hung at its side. "You should not like being called Dr. 'En, I suppose." "A man holding a gun on me can call me anything he pleases." "That is an interesting weapon," conceded van Clynne. "I took it for a museum piece." "Not at all. It is very old, but still exceedingly efficient." "Of Dutch design, I suppose." "Hardly."

  "And the girl?" asked van Clynne, taking a short step to his right as he looked for cover. "What have you done with her?"

  "She was having difficulty sleeping, so I prescribed some powders. They seem to have worked very well; I left her snoring on the bench of my coach."

  Van Clynne took another step. His lighting of the candle had been a signal to his men that he was inside; they were to proceed forthwith to the attack, advancing with weapons drawn and bayonets sharpened. The Dutchman had only to pass a few light words with his quarry and the engagement would be his. In truth, rarely had victory come to him so easily.

  "I see you have not yet replaced your hat," said the Dutchman. "But you have at least improved the color of your coat."

  "I like to believe I can learn from my mistakes."

  Van Clynne frowned to himself and wondered where his men were. This was the problem with using soldiers who were not Dutch — they might be filled with energy, but had no sense of timing or discipline. "Considering that you are a medical doctor, sir," he stalled, "perhaps you would consult with me on certain difficulties I have been having with my digestion. You worked wonders with your leeches."

  "I don't intend on making that mistake again," said Keen, moving his left hand to the fuse.

  Van Clynne threw himself toward the candle, dousing the light and yelling for his men to launch their assault. But he was not answered by the glorious sounds of a charging company of bloodthirsty Continentals. Nor did Keen fire in his direction. Instead, the night became day and van Clynne found himself not only illuminated but surrounded by a ring of bright phosphorous laid in a deep trail with several full pots at strategic spots in the ruins. The surrounding walls, which had been covered with a thin pitch, caught fire, becoming thick torches in the night.

  At the same time, a dozen barrels placed in the woods ignited with a purplish powder that rendered anyone within twenty feet completely helpless — and so was van Clynne's army temporarily annihilated.

  "You didn't think I would shoot at you in the dark, did you?" asked Keen. The doctor had concealed a small bomblet in his hand, and lit it off the gun's fuse before dropping it into a pile of the phosphorus. "I'm afraid I found it expedient to remove the brigade you brought here; I wouldn't want them interfering with our interview."

  Van Clynne pulled himself up indignantly. "This is but a stage trick," he said. "What will we have next, dancing clowns?"

  "If you wish," said Keen, pointing the gun at van Clynne's feet. "Dance."

  "I will not, sir. I would rather die."

  The bullet that ricocheted directly at van Clynne's feet did not change his opinion, but the second one did. The Dutchman hopped up immediately, and was still in the air when the third bullet whizzed by his toes.

  The reader, not to mention the squire, will naturally wonder how Keen was able to accomplish this, when he was holding only one gun. The ingenious doctor had used his study of the writings of Marco Polo and certain Chinese scholars to construct a musket with multiple tubes, whose lock end contained not one but three different firing mechanisms. Small balls and their charges were wedged into cylinders directly above the stock and ignited by the end of the fuse when it was touched against them.

  Keen did not bother explaining the gun's genesis or operation to van Clynne. Out of bullets, he merely put down the gun and reached into his pocket for another weapon, this one considerably more familiar to the Dutchman — Jake's Segallas. Van Clynne was not idle during this small interlude, reaching for a tomahawk and unleashing it in the doctor's direction. As he did so, it vanished into a wall of flames that suddenly shot up in front of him.

  "I had some ambitions on being a stage designer when I was young," said Keen as the flare-up subsided. "I'm afraid I still have a tendency to indulge myself in theatrical bombast." "I was indeed impressed by that trick, sir. I begin to feel humbled in your presence." "If you believe in God, prepare your soul to meet him," said Keen, pointing the gun. "I recognize your weapon, sir; it belongs to a friend of mine who will go to great lengths to get it back." "Indeed."

  "Its bullets, if I may say, are rather small." Claus took a cautious step forward. "They will sting, but they will not kill me."

  "They do indeed sting," said Keen, whose own buttocks attested to their effect. "But I have taken the opportunity to add a treatment to them that will make them do considerably more than that. You have heard of the scorpion?"

  "A delightful creature," said van Clynne. "Are you planning on following his example and cut your head off, now that I have you surrounded?"

  "On your knees, pig."

  "Jane — no!" shouted van Clynne.

  His exclamation was completely in earnest, for Jane had managed to elude the ring of smoke and flames and slipped into the cottage to rescue her true love. Keen, however, interpreted the remark as a juvenile diversionary tactic, and so was nearly caught off guard when sweet Jane lunged at him with a large and heavy tree branch.

  Nearly was not good enough, unfortunately. Keen leaped aside and tripped the girl, then swung and ducked van Clynne's second hatchet. "Tie him up," the doctor ordered Jane, pointing his gun. "And be quick about it." "I would sooner die," she replied. "Then I will kill you both," promised Keen. "Please, Jane, if you value our love, do as he says. I will gladly forfeit my life for yours." What bravery from the mouth of a Dutchman! What sentiments of love!

  And surely the sentiment was heartfelt and genuine — though it should be noted for scientific accuracy that van Clynne had spotted a familiar shadow approaching through the darkness behind Keen. Sweet Jane bent her head, and with a tear in her eye took the rope the doctor tossed her.

  "Tut, tut, my dear. We shall be together for all eternity," said van Clynne bravely. "This is but a momentary nuisance."

  "Prepare to meet your maker," said Keen, in a voice at once so evil and dramatic that Shakespeare would have taken him for Burbage.

  "It is you who should prepare yourself," said Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs, kicking away the short piece of smoldering wall that had covered his approach. "I would think the odds much higher of my rifle bullet finding you than your bullets hitting my friend."

  So many events were crammed into the next second and a half that it would take several days — indeed, an entire trip from Westchester to Albany — to unravel them properly.

  Jake had enlisted a company of American dragoons to assist him; mustered upwi
nd on the hill leading to the roadway, they suddenly flashed their weapons and charged toward the ruins.

  Van Clynne grabbed sweet Jane in his arms and dove with her to the ground.

  Jake shot square at Keen, and swore later he hit him in the side.

  Keen fired, but not at van Clynne or at Jake, nor at any of the soldiers for that matter. Instead he hit a specially prepared barrel, which exploded instantly, sending a dark powder into the air that doused the flickering phosphorous and blocked the stars and dim moon overhead.

  Shouts, gunfire, screams — all mixed in the confused air. Jake grabbed a body he thought was the doctor's. Immediately a sweet odor filled his nose, somehow defeating the cotton he had placed there as a precaution against such tricks. He felt his grip inexplicably weaken. The mounted soldiers fell upon each other in the darkness. Horses wailed, a woman wept; by the time fires were lit and the smoke cleared, Keen and his carriage were gone.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Wherein, the story is temporarily concluded, loose ends tied, and further adventures promised.

  Jake found Rose on the ground near where the carriage had been, Keen obviously calculating that his escape would be easier if he did not carry her along. The patriot took her into his arms and brought her to the cottage while the dragoons recovered themselves and set out after the doctor. Even as they mounted their horses, Jake knew the odds were greatly against them — but he also sensed that eventually he would meet Keen again.

  While the patriot spy searched through the remains of Keen's drug jars for something that might bring her around, Rose came to on her own, slowly opening one eye and then the other as the effects of Keen's potion wore off. But rather than leaping up, she closed both eyes and waited for her hero to return with a small bottle of smelling salts.

  He lifted her head gently into his lap, smoothed her curls back, then waved the blue glass beneath her nose. Despite her resolve to enjoy this sweet pillow as long as possible, she immediately began coughing. "There we go," said Jake, lifting her up and standing beside her. "Are you all right?" His question was answered by a swift and strong hug. "Thank God you rescued me," she said, underlining her gratitude with a series of kisses.