The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  Jake scooped up the old man's musket and pushed his way between the animals as the militiaman arrived.

  "Out, you thief, I know you're in there!" called one of the guards. "You Tory cowboys won't be stealing any of the town's oxen tonight, I promise you."

  The men murmured in consultation outside, revealing their names as Harrold and Daniel, but otherwise offered little that was useful to Jake. He slipped to the back of the ox pack and waited for the guards' next move.

  A sound at the large center door alerted him to their plans, and suggested a counterattack. By the time the door swung open, Jake had the oxen mustered and pressing forward.

  A stampede it wasn't. But the soldiers had their hands full trying to contain the large, lumbering creatures, and found it impossible to close the door before three or four escaped. This engendered some arguing as the men found it necessary to split up, one entering the barn and the other going after the beasts. It also gave Jake the opportunity to climb to the second floor loft.

  Leaving his musket in the straw, the patriot jumped down onto Daniel's back as he came into the barn, thinking to ride him to the ground and quickly knock him out.

  Jake would have had a better chance with one of the oxen, and in fact, might be forgiven for thinking he had landed on one. Daniel Higgins was an immense nineteen-year-old, and his first reaction to Jake's assault was a noncommittal shrug, as if he did not realize he'd been tackled. This was followed by a violent shake and shudder, as Jake grabbed hold of his throat with one arm and pummeled the side of his head with the other. The man began screaming for help — Jake would have been justified in making a similar plea — and pitched forward so quickly that the patriot spy flew forward onto the ground.

  The blow did not hurt him, though the smear of ox dung on his face when he landed was nearly incapacitating. Jake just barely rolled out of the way as Daniel charged forward, and watched with some satisfaction as the man slipped on the flattened ox turd himself.

  It took two kicks to the side of Daniel's head to knock him senseless. Jake had just picked up the man's musket when he heard a sound behind him. He swung around and saw the other militiaman entering the barn, rifle in hand.

  There was a split second of opportunity before the man could bring his gun to bear. But Jake could no more shoot a member of his army than he could shoot himself, even for the greater good of the Cause. He threw down the weapon and stood away from the fallen soldier.

  "What have you done to Daniel?"

  "Set him to dreaming what he'll do after the war," said Jake. "But otherwise he's fine."

  "Don't be smart." The militiaman pointed his rifle at him menacingly. "Move away from the gun, you coward."

  "Coward? I thought it took a lot of bravery to throw down my gun. I could easily have killed you, Harrold."

  A confused expression grew on the militiaman's face. "Who are you?" he asked.

  "I don't look familiar to you?"

  "Not at all."

  "Would you know your own brother?" Jake took a step forward.

  The militiaman pointed his rifle in the approximate direction of Jake's heart. "You're not my brother."

  "I asked only if you would know him. Sometimes, the circumstances of our surroundings can be so different that the familiar appears strange."

  "This is a trick."

  "A trick? Why do you think I didn't kill you?"

  "You have your reasons, I suspect." Harrold watched as Jake slowly circled around toward the barn door. "I'm not going to let you run out of here."

  "You really don't remember me? Not at all?"

  "Are you that old countryman who deserted the unit when we were called last month?"

  "Do I look like a deserter?"

  Harrold hesitated, but then shook his head. In all this time, he had kept his finger firmly on the trigger, and for all his confusion, had not quite dropped his aim. A sudden noise, even a sharp movement, might cause him to fire — and shorten Jake Gibbs's career considerably.

  "You're not in our militia."

  "Think back, Harrold, think back to your youth."

  "You run out that door, I'll shoot you, I swear."

  But Jake's object was not to run out the door — it was to slap it closed and send the interior into pitch-black darkness. He dove against the heavy door the way a child jumps into a snow pile. The long irons hinges creaked in anger, but swung back nevertheless, shutting out the dim twilight.

  As Jake hit the ground, he heard the stinging bee of the bullet pass over his head.

  "You shouldn't have fired, Harrold. First rule of warfare, never shoot at what you can't see."

  But Jake's eyes were no better adapted to the dimness than the militiaman's. He rolled forward, abruptly bouncing into a wall. As he got to his feet, he realized Harrold had gotten a bead on him and charged forward; Jake just managed to jump away as the militiaman lunged.

  The crack Harrold's head took off the wall must have been severe, but it didn't stop him — he flailed with his rifle, using it as a club, and caught Jake in the side of the head. Jake ate straw and dirt for a moment, then caught a sharp blow to his ribs before managing to roll away.

  This was just the sort of impromptu contest the American militia did well in. Put them in line and drill them until the corn sprouted, and no more than a third would follow the commands during a set-piece battle. But give them an ambush, let them show initiative, and they were strong foes indeed.

  Unlike General Percy, the man who led the redcoat retreat from Lexington and Concord, Jake was not about to play into the militia's hands by retreating. Instead, he began a spirited counterattack, pulling at Harrold's leg and catching him off-balance. He knocked the fellow to the ground, where they began to wrestle for an advantage amid the legs of the cattle, who every so often added a kick of annoyance at being disturbed.

  Now the reader will recall that Jake Gibbs is a tall, strongly-built man just past twenty-three; in his stocking feet he stands two inches beyond six feet, and every inch of his frame is well supported by muscle. His opponent, in his stocking feet, came no higher than Jake's collarbone; he liked to tip the bottle at night, and in truth had shied away from brawling ever since receiving a bloody nose as a nine-year-old. But here was a man who was fighting for his country; Jake would have had an easier time grappling with a German giant brought across the ocean to pay his prince's debts. Certainly he wished he was, for then he might have fought with a freer hand. Here he had to fight hard enough to stop the well-motivated patriot, yet not so hard that he would cause him permanent harm.

  Harrold grabbed Jake by the throat and refused to let go, even as Jake rolled him onto his back and began pounding his head against the hard-packed floor. The man's grip tightened and tightened, and Jake began to fear that he would have the fellow's brains splattered across the floor before winning his freedom.

  Finally the pounding took its toll, and Jake felt Harrold's grip loosening. He gave one more smash and jumped up, half expecting the militiaman to bolt up after him. But Harrold finally had been knocked senseless; his troubled breathing foretold a severe headache when he awoke.

  Jake quickly went to the door; there were no reinforcements in sight. He tied the two unconscious militiamen up with leather straps and hauled them to the far wall, fastening them to a ring there. The oxen, confused by the activity, were pulled back inside their pen, and Jake found five seconds to tuck his shirt in his pants before returning to prison.

  -Chapter Twenty-four-

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne is guest of honor at a bloodletting, and Rose unhoops herself.

  Claus van Clynne was generally known as a punctual man, at least as far as business was concerned. He was therefore greatly grieved that he could not arrive on time for his appointment with Jake at Pine's Bridge.

  To put it more accurately, he was greatly grieved that he could not be anywhere other than his present location, a small house near Colabaugh Pond. The effects of the drug Major Dr. Keen had administered had worn o
ff not long after midnight, now nearly four hours gone; the Dutchman was therefore in full possession of his senses — which meant he not only could watch as Keen snapped the lid off the large, coffin-like box his assistant Phillip Percival brought into the cottage, but he fully understood that the collection of jars inside contained particularly loathsome leeches.

  Under normal circumstances, a bloodletting can be most beneficial when one's bodily humors are out of balance. The efficacy of the treatment has been documented for centuries, and one need no more fear a good medicinal leech than worry about being somehow poisoned by tobacco smoke. But these were not ordinary circumstances.

  Nor were they ordinary leeches. Imported from a river in South America, each filled an entire two-gallon jar by itself. The black on the upper portion of its body was complemented by a tawny red on the belly, coincidentally the exact color of dried blood. Rows of small pincers shaped like tiny, vibrating daggers protruded from the elongated belly, stretching out like Howe's army marching up Manhattan after the debacle of Kipp's Bay.

  Keen handled each animal with great care, grabbing the tail end with a long set of wrought-iron pincers and using a pointed rod to keep the head in line as he approached his patient. He wore a thick set of leather gloves that rose to his elbows, stiff riding boots, and a leather apron such as a glassblower might wear, sturdy protection should the massive worm test his availability as a target.

  Stripped to a small loincloth that had been cut from his red flannel under suit — Percival had taken great pleasure wielding his knife to slice away the material — van Clynne attempted to employ a special mind technique he had learned from an old Huron Indian. Confronted by a host of Iroquois eager for his beaver pelts, the Indian had concentrated his will, flooding his opponents' minds with frightening hallucinations designed to make them run away empty-handed.

  In this case, the Dutchman conjured a portrait of the most grievous beast he could think of — an irate Dutchwoman cheated of the proper price for a cow, coming at Keen with a large butcher knife.

  The trick worked about as well for van Clynne as it had for the Indian — Keen used his black metal prod to guide the leech's head around the Dutchman's right ankle, whereupon the animal's instincts took over and it wrapped itself around the rest of the bare leg, up to the knee joint.

  The sensation was something like what might be felt if a hundred kittens took their tiny paws and stuck them into the skin all at once; it was more a light tickle than a sharp pain. Far worse was the gentle slurping sound that accompanied the pricking.

  "Well, sir, it was just about time for my monthly bloodletting," said van Clynne as cheerfully as possible. "I suppose this will cure me of the headache I suffered from your last potion."

  "This will cure you of many ailments," said Keen. "Though I must say I have never liked bloodletting as a general therapy. My experimentation has proven it rather ineffective."

  "Well then, perhaps we should desist. I wouldn't want to prove the exception to the rule."

  "We must always seek more empirical evidence," said Keen.

  The second leech was a bit rambunctious when released from its jar; Keen had to bat its head several times before getting it under control. But the creature was quite happy once it found van Clynne's left leg; it wrapped itself around even more tightly than the first, uttering a contented slurp.

  "Tickles," said van Clynne.

  "Good."

  "I wonder if this might be the proper time to inquire as to what you have done with my money."

  "Really, I hardly think a few odd pounds would occupy your thoughts at a moment like this."

  "Actually, sir, it was more than just a few odd pounds. Not that I wish to question your mathematical abilities."

  "Your paper money is on the bench there," said Keen, pointing as he opened another jar. The interaction of the glass, air, and alkaline solution produced a peculiar pffff sound when each vessel was first breached. "As for the real money—"

  "I do not carry counterfeit, sir. My paper currency is all genuine."

  "I am holding your purses myself for safekeeping. These woods are filled with miscreants, and I would not want your coins to fall into the wrong hands while you are otherwise occupied. My assistant Mr. Percival shall issue a receipt, of course."

  "Perhaps there is the possibility of a business arrangement," suggested the Dutchman, eying the third worm.

  "Quite late in the game for that," answered Keen.

  The third leech was as big as the first two combined, and Keen had to ask Percival to help retrieve him. The assistant used a glassblower's wooden-handled stirrer to keep the worm's midsection taut as they walked the creature across and applied him to van Clynne's arm. The leech squirmed violently as it positioned itself around the ropes and the arm of the chair where the Dutchman was held. Its body exerted greater pressure than the last two; van Clynne felt as if a powerful vice had been applied.

  "There is one piece of information of some interest to me," said Keen. "I wonder where you got your ruby knife."

  "Which knife was that?"

  "This one," said Keen, slipping the blade into his hand — and from there, into the floorboards directly at the Dutchman's feet.

  "Oh, that knife," said van Clynne. "I'm afraid that is a very long story."

  "I suspect I have more time to listen than you have to tell it," said Keen, opening the next jar.

  However accomplished Major Dr. Keen was in other arts, he was not such a good time-teller as might be supposed. For as he was aiming his next leech, Rose McGuiness was approaching along the road at a goodly pace.

  While Jake had impressed the importance of the mission on her so severely that she would have wrestled Pluto himself had he tried to delay her, she slowed and then pulled over to the side of the road near the cottage for three reasons, the first two of which were related: first, she was struck by the extremely odd sight of a fancy city carriage on this country highway. Second, she hoped its equipage might include some rein or rope she could use to keep herself from falling off her horse, as she had resorted to gripping the poor but patient animal's mane for the several miles she'd ridden thus far.

  Last but not least, her hoops were killing her.

  As the author has only a passing acquaintanceship with the intricacies of female accoutrements, the description of the cause of her discomfort necessarily will be brief. Jake had told her to take anything of value with her; being that the girl was not from a very rich family, the only thing worth more than a pence or two besides her affections were her clothes.

  Lacking a satchel, she could only take one set, which she naturally wore. Her fancy dress had been given to her by her employer but a week before, with a stiff corset and hoops. She was only too happy to leave the corset behind, substituting a much more practical un-boned jump, which performed the same function with considerably less poking around the ribs. But not being completely unmindful of her appearance, she had kept the hoops, putting them to their usual use beneath her dress. This proved to be a mistake — while they did not come close to approaching the dimensions of the more fashionable city attire, they were nonetheless stiff enough to cause distress as she rode bareback through the countryside.

  Spotting Keen's coach thus provided a good reason to stop, as well as cover to remove the annoying barrel beneath her waist. The house appeared occupied, and light escaped from the cracks around the shutters, but the yard was empty and the shutters blocked anyone inside from seeing out as effectively as they kept anyone outside from looking in.

  Rose coaxed her horse to a stop behind the carriage and slipped off. The animal was well trained and placid, standing still as she reached her hand to a lash dangling from a rear compartment. In a second the leather rope had been placed into service as a makeshift rein, tied gently to the horse's neck; the stallion was not pleased with this new arrangement but stoically refused to complain.

  Rose's next priority was to liberate herself from her portable prison. Once free of t
he whalebones, she cast her eye over the elaborate coach. It took no imagination at all to conclude that it must belong to a Tory — no patriot could afford such an elaborate rig. She resolved to do the Cause a favor by freeing the team of horses, and sprang forward to do so — stopping short when she saw the shadow of the large gun mounted at the driver's bench.

  Before Rose could climb up and examine the gun, however, she heard a loud groan from the house. As quietly as she could, she crept to the window. Climbing atop a battered old tree trunk for a better view, she pressed her face to the dusty glass. The crack between the interior shutters gave her a view of Keen and his assistant wrestling with their leeches. Her eye followed the worm to the rotund body before them; with its red-bearded face, it could only belong to the Dutchman Jake had described.

  Just as she realized this, the rotted tree trunk gave way, sending her in a noisy heap to the ground.

  If she had moved quickly before, she nearly flew now as she threw herself back to the carriage and onto the driver's station. Though she was no expert on weapons, she quickly saw that the miniature cannon was loaded and ready to shoot. The firing mechanism was in all the important ways exactly similar to the lock on a regular rifle, with which she was fully familiar. The swivel mechanism was perfectly balanced, and so it took no great strength for her to maneuver the business end of the weapon and sight it at the front door of the cottage.

  A good portion of van Clynne had been covered by leeches, whose black bodies were not only rapidly swelling but had begun to take on a sheen. The animals jostled lightly against each other as they fed, grudgingly admitting newcomers as Keen continued to pack them tightly against the Dutchman's skin. There were still some reddish pink blotches of flesh poking out between the worms at van Clynne's prodigious waist, however, and the doctor expressed the fear that he might not have enough to properly complete the job.

  "What a shame that would be," commented van Clynne. "So you won't be able to kill me after all."