The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  Jake's guard by now had eased; he decided to enjoy a game with his new companion and draw him out on the local situation at his leisure. It was not often one found a chance to play chess these days.

  To make conversation, he told Barrows he'd come down from Fishkill. It was true enough, except that it omitted his recent foray in New York City. They exchanged some other pleasantries and minor bits of gossip. The man said the neighborhood leaned to the Whig side, though there were plenty of people like Beverly Robinson who still held with the king. Jake supplied only bare hints of himself, pretending to be traveling on unspecified business.

  Their chat was curtailed by the quickness of the game: Barrows’ skill once more proved less advanced than his enthusiasm, and Jake had his king pinned before twenty moves had passed.

  "Another game?" he asked.

  "Surely," said Jake, changing sides and even offering a pointer or two on technique and opening.

  For naught. Jake won this game in sixteen. He was surprised when Barrows requested another chance at revenge.

  "All right," said Jake. "Would you like a handicap? I can play without my castles."

  The man's expression, which had been jolly enough considering the circumstances, turned positively delirious. Were there no candles or fire, his teeth alone could have lit the room.

  "I believe that would be welcome," he said. "Very welcome."

  Jake had never seen anyone so ecstatic over a game of chess, not even in Parsloe's, the London hangout of Andre Danican Philidor and the rest of the English chess scene. Amused, he began moving his pawns forward in haphazard fashion, deciding that he would give his companion a double advantage.

  This proved unnecessary. Jake had made only four or five moves when he realized that his opponent's game had improved sharply—so much so, in fact, that it was like facing an entirely new man across the board, a man who not only had a two-rook advantage, but had Jake's picket of pawns in deep trouble. It was Breed's Hill all over again — the redcoats, or in this case the white pawns, had charged ahead into the line while the patriots waited. Finally, the muskets opened up — a bishop slashed, a knight reeled, and Jake stood as naked as Gates on the battlefield. He struggled to pull his pieces into a protective cordon, wielding his dragoons and rangers as Washington had when he retreated up Manhattan Island, but it was no use; as brave as his men were, they were outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. The game ended with queen pinned and king checked — as should all wars.

  "The handicap was your undoing," said the man graciously, extending his hand to Jake as he pinned the queen.

  Having unmasked some portion of his true skill, Jake expected Mr. Barrows would now ask if he wanted another game, with a small side wager to keep things interesting. The patriot spy was just deciding whether his game was strong enough to take up such a challenge when his opponent surprised him once again, taking a small, carved junk or pipe from his vest and asking if he would join him outside for a smoke.

  "I like to get a good breath of fresh air in the pipe as I smoke," said Barrows. "It is an odd habit of mine, but I believe it enhances the flavor of the leaves."

  Jake gave a glance to the corner where van Clynne and Jane were occupied in a curious courtship ritual involving the communication of spirits through the ether. The pair appeared so enmeshed as to be dumbstruck, gazing into each other's eyes with less intelligence betrayed on their faces than on that of the average duck. Such a sight alone was enough to send Jake running outside for a smoke.

  There was a second factor. Jake had noted during the last match that the man's hands were not so calloused as one would expect from a farmer, especially with the heavy plowing and sowing not long completed. It was a possibly significant anomaly.

  "What did you say your name was?" asked the man as they reached the porch. Though of less than average height, his shoulders were wide and his muscular legs stretched his breeches tight.

  "Jake Smith," he said smoothly, trusting that the natural tone of his voice would allay doubt about the common alias. There are, after all, a great number of Smiths in the world, even if there are a greater number claiming to be them.

  "You were in London."

  In that instant, Jake's loose suspicions became a definite theory — this Barrows was a Tory and an unusually bold and clever one.

  Jake drew smoothly on the proffered pipe and nodded his head. "Yes." He handed back the pipe and self-consciously pulled his hair back into its ribbon, as if nervous. "Before our troubles."

  "These are difficult times, aren't they?"

  "It's the righteousness of the rabble that is so shocking."

  "Careful, sir, or you'll give yourself away."

  Jake realized the man was no ordinary Loyalist, content to keep his politics covered until the local tide turned. Barrows must be a recruiter working behind the lines, as accomplished at his job as at his chess game.

  But he was no match for the disguised patriot spy, who had played out this sort of drama thousands of times before. Jake whirled around with an oath and started back inside, as if he took the man to be a patriot trying to start an argument with him.

  "Just a moment, sir." Barrows touched his arm lightly but firmly. Jake was a tall man, well built; Barrows’ head came to his shoulder. Still, the Tory was powerful, and his touch betrayed more than simple self-assurance. "Let us be frank with each other. My name is not Barrows, it is Busch."

  "If you're looking for trouble, I'll oblige," said Jake, still playing the offended Loyalist. "I've had enough from your rebel brethren these past weeks, running me off my land."

  "Where was that?"

  "Near Fishkill," lied Jake.

  "So you've come down from there."

  "I told you that before. I am not a liar."

  "You rode along the river?"

  "What is it to you?"

  "You passed the chain, I assume."

  Even with his mask so firmly drawn over his true self, Jake felt an involuntary flutter pass through his stomach. He nodded.

  "Did you see the defenses there?"

  "I did not ride close to the shore. I have no care for the rebel army, one way or another."

  "In these times, it is difficult to know a man's heart from his words," said Busch, his tone still suggestive. "One may profess his allegiance to one side or the other, and yet be lying about it."

  Jake now had his opening and drove for it, as if he were leading a team of four horses with a full company of men behind him. His companion van Clynne could not have closed a sale so deftly.

  "It's all so easy for you and your ilk, papering over things with your bogus law and your rump committees, but you've left a great deal of the country to starve, and all because of your foolishness," Jake said hotly. "Where do you think this will end but on the gallows? And this year, too — note the sevens, sir, the gibbets. I for one will be glad. Tar and feather me, if you like—I've nothing else to lose."

  "Careful, careful," said Busch soothingly. "Calm down. You've quite mistaken me."

  "How is that?"

  "If you've had enough of things as they are, meet me here after the others have gone to bed, at 2 a.m. Say nothing to the keeper. He is a committed rebel and will put you in jail as soon as serve you an ale. Think it over, sir," added Busch, smiling as he took a step toward the tavern door. "Perhaps it's time you took your fate in your hands, instead of leaving it to others."

  -Chapter Four-

  Wherein, the scene is moved to New York City, in anticipation of meeting a most despicable character.

  With darkness coming on and the inhabitants of Prisco’s inn repairing to their beds, we will shift our scene temporarily from the bucolic if troubled hills of the Hudson Valley to the lit streets of New York City. We are searching specifically for a covered chaise, making its way from the shadows on the west side of the lower island, across the precincts laid waste by the Great Fire, toward a mansion that sits atop a hill on the east side of the isle overlooking the Hell’s Gate.

&
nbsp; The carriage’s finely carved wood panels and polished brass fittings are a fine example of British craftsmanship, imported directly to the city two months prior by its owner, who tonight sits alone in the cabin, contemplating the hard twists of life that have brought him to America. Less than a year before, he enjoyed all the prerogatives of London’s leading surgeon and man of science. But in that achievement lay the root of his downfall: the experiments that had helped him reach his position ― of necessity performed on live subjects ― had given certain small and jealous minds an opening. It was only because of his personal service to the kind that he escaped prison and much worse.

  Major Dr. Harland Keen was not a melancholy man, and so his reflections did not have the hard-edged bitterness one would expect from so recent an exile. Nor did he plot a return to London society; he had had quite enough of it, and in many respects was glad of the ocean between him and his former home. Still a man of independent means, the doctor had a wealth of knowledge stored in his brain and a rapacious hunger for more. It was a hunger that the New World, and his position in it, promised to fill.

  Major Dr. Keen arrived without fanfare at the mansion in question. This large brick house formerly belonged to a member of the provincial congress, who expressed his confidence in the American army as well as his political preferences by fleeing the city the day the English invaded Long Island. The house had since been occupied by General Henry Clay Bacon, the head of British intelligence services in America, and more ominously, the king's representative of the Secret Department.

  It would not be surprising if the reader has not yet become familiar with the workings, or even the existence, of the Secret Department. By far the vast majority of people who have had occasion to deal with them have done so only as their mortal victims. The department, consisting solely of men with close personal ties to the king — and dark tints upon their past which place them utterly within his power — exists only to carry out missions of such nature that all other branches of service, military and civil, shy from even mentioning. Every member of the department is a trained assassin, with additional talents besides; while each man has another, legitimate duty — Keen is employed by the Admiralty as a doctor — his first allegiance is to the department.

  Bacon felt so secure in his position and person that he employed but a single guard at his front door. This was no mere soldier, however, nor even a delegate of a distinguished unit such as the Black Watch. Bacon's man had been personally recruited from the southern tip of India and dressed in the peculiar blankets of his native land. His oversized hands had the strength of ten men, and his powers of sight and sound were said to be enhanced by mantras known only among the Hindu. Locked in his grip was a giant blade ordinarily found only in India; it ran the full length of his prodigious leg and was twice as wide as his immense thigh. Sharper than the razor a barber would use to shave his favorite customer, its balance was so perfect that a single finger placed in the middle could support it.

  Dr. Keen nodded at him as he passed through the doorway, smiling at the curved sword; the doctor's own weapons of choice were infinitely more subtle.

  Bacon was waiting in his study. Formerly the dining room, the general had converted it because he thought entertaining a frivolous and unnecessary occupation. The large windows stood over the water; he liked to look up from his work and stare through them, sometimes for hours, as his mind prepared its dark designs.

  "Doctor, you're late," he told Keen without rising from his desk or changing his gaze, which was directed at the window.

  "Excuse me, General, but I was detained by Lord Admiral Howe. He wished me to attend to a medical problem of his."

  "Syphilis again?" Bacon spit the word toward the glass. He thought little of either of the Howe brothers — Richard "Black Dick" Howe, the admiral in charge of the fleet, or William, the general in charge of the army. To Bacon's mind — and indeed he was not alone in this opinion — the entire British command structure was laden with incompetents and dandies who relied on politics for their positions.

  Keen, as was his wont, said nothing. It happened that the ailment was a cold, but mentioning this would bring only a snort of derision. In Keen's judgment, Richard was an able leader and a far different man than his brother William, even if he, too, was soft on the colonists.

  Bacon's contempt did not extend to Keen. The white-haired gentleman with the very proper cut in his powder blue suit and the fussy gold-tipped cane had a hardened, vigorous body and a mind sharper than a fusilier's sword, and Bacon knew and appreciated this. Every piece of the doctor was as balanced and premeditated as a fine watch. The frilly handkerchief he kept up his sleeve, for example, was in fact a deadly weapon — a small bladder secreted inside contained a powder extracted from Convallaria majalis. The general had witnessed the powder's effects — immediate convulsions, a paralyzing stroke, and a painful, lingering death. It was an apt weapon for this man, refined from the beautiful lily of the valley, which appeared so innocent yet struck so viciously when probed.

  "I assume, Sir Henry, that I am not here to continue our game of chess."

  "There are more important matters to be attended to." Bacon made a slight motion with his head, by which his visitor understood that he was to sit in the large chair to his right. It was a concession of honor — there was a bottle of Madeira on the table next to the chair, and Keen knew he could help himself if he wished.

  The doctor sat but did not drink. He was quite aware that this raised his commander's opinion of him.

  "I have a difficult problem to be unknotted," said Bacon, finally turning his gaze toward Keen. As he continued to speak, a blackened hand seemed to spread over his face; this was an unfortunate birthmark, which became more prominent during moments of great concentration or stress.

  The mark had given rise to the nickname "Black Clay" at a very early age. To use it in the general's presence was to risk great wrath and possibly death, but the sobriquet was commonly applied behind his back. Many a man who knew it thought the name referred appropriately to his soul.

  Major Dr. Keen was not among them. He saw a person of superior intelligence hampered by the difficulties of his upbringing and his illegitimate birth — for Keen was well aware that Bacon was the bastard son of King George II, unacknowledged half-brother to the present king.

  "I only appreciate difficult problems," said the doctor mildly. "An easy task would be boring."

  "There was a young man in the city yesterday named Jake Gibbs. He called himself a medical doctor and said he had attended Edinburgh."

  "Attending such a school would allow him that honor."

  "You have met him?"

  "I have not had that pleasure."

  "I thought all doctors whored together."

  Keen said nothing.

  "My men think he is merely an apothecary, though they speak highly of his cures," continued Bacon. "In any event, he has a remarkable intelligence and is widely traveled; a five-minute conversation with him would prove the point beyond any doubt."

  "I accept your judgment."

  Bacon permitted himself a wan smile. "He claimed to be in the service of a Dutchman named Claus van Clynne, a man of money and property. This van Clynne seemed the embodiment of all that is wrong with the race, but perhaps that is my chauvinism."

  "I don't believe I know either gentleman," said Keen, his statement implying the question: Why are they important?

  "The Dutchman delivered a message from General Burgoyne to Sir William Howe aboard ship yesterday. The message has been checked and authenticated, naturally. Sir William thought it a bit pompous to have been sent by Gentleman Johnny.” Burgoyne's nickname was practically spit from Bacon's mouth. "Though frankly I find it not pompous enough. In any event, the contents are not of immediate interest. But in delivering the message, the Dutchman claimed to have uncovered a plot in our dispatch service, involving a Major Herstraw."

  "Another stranger to me."

  "A good thing, as he is sa
id to have worked for the rebels."

  Keen adjusted one of the gold watch chains on his brocaded yellow vest. He considered looking for a traitor in the messenger service somewhat beneath his level of skill, but an order was an order. "Where was this Herstraw last seen?"

  "It's not him I want you to attend to. The Dutchman made some hints to me that he was a member of the Secret Department."

  "A Dutchman?"

  Bacon frowned, fully in agreement with Keen's prejudices. "The king has, on occasion, used foreign agents on missions of elimination as a temporary expedient. I am personally acquainted with the disappearance of a cardinal that was associated with the workings of an Amsterdam native. Nonetheless, to meet this man — he possesses a certain crude ability, but one would sooner take him for a stage clown than an agent."

  "There are ways to validate his identity, I assume," said Major Dr. Keen.

  "It is not easy. I would have to send someone to London, and then have certain questions asked, which could lead to difficulties. Nonetheless, it will be done, if you fail."

  As Keen was sworn to carry out any mission assigned or die in the process, this was an unnecessary if subtle threat. But the doctor was too mannered to respond directly.

  "What hints could he have made?"

  "He possessed a knife," said Bacon, almost as an afterthought. "He managed to show it to me discreetly."

  The knife Bacon referred to was a long, thin-bladed weapon with a ruby set into its ornate hilt. The stone was modeled after one of the crown jewels and was the department's signifier. A member of the brotherhood was given the dagger at the moment he was assigned a specific task, and it was returned when the job done. There were less than two dozen such knives in existence; to possess one was as sure a sign possible that a man was a member of the small, bloody coterie.

  "But you are suspicious nonetheless." Keen had never heard of a member of the department being impersonated; indeed, the very nature of the organization and its members made that unlikely. The knife was impossible to counterfeit and would be guarded to the death by its possessor. Still — a Dutchman?