The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  "Oh, these aren't intended to kill you," said Keen, hoisting another leech from its jar. "This would be much too pleasant a way to die."

  "I had begun to worry about that myself," said van Clynne.

  Keen's assistant Percival grinned in satisfaction at the door. He still had his poker under his arm, but as the largest animals had been applied already, his help was unnecessary.

  "So, are you ready to tell me about the knife, or will you wait until I have the leeches applied to your eyeballs?"

  "I have been ready to tell that story for a half hour or more," conceded van Clynne, who was somewhat thankful when Keen applied the worm to a spot on his chest instead of his face.

  "Go ahead then."

  "Well, it began several years ago, when I was a young boy on business in South Carolina. A man named Bacon, I believe — a dour-faced fart, but then so are most British gentlemen, present company excepted — approached me and asked if I should like to earn a few guineas by doing an errand for the king. Naturally, I thought he was referring to the Dutch king."

  Keen's laughter at the improbable tale was cut short by sounds outside. He listened for a moment as the horses began to whicker.

  "Go see what's wrong with them," the doctor barked at Percival.

  Keen turned back to van Clynne and placed his tongs on the Dutchman's nose as Percival went slowly to the door. The doctor was just starting to give a sharp twist when the front of the room exploded with warm shot.

  -Chapter Twenty-five-

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne is liberated and the road forks portentously.

  Claus van Clynne had rarely had such an occasion to celebrate an explosion, for the shower of hot shrapnel and splinters abruptly ended the nose-twisting being administered by Major Dr. Keen. Though his body was covered with the most hideous leeches imaginable, there is nothing a Dutchman fears more than having his nose twisted; it signifies bad breeding and a certain facial inferiority.

  A large piece of the shattered door caught Keen in the side of the head and knocked him down. Van Clynne bulled his chair over and began crawling toward a large shard of broken glass. The engorged leeches cushioned the fall, and though still bound to the chair the Dutchman quickly reached the glass.

  He had just gotten his arms untied and had started working on his legs when Keen recovered from his momentary daze. Van Clynne distracted the doctor's charge with a cannonade of fattened worms; they tickled as he pulled them off, drunk on his blood.

  But there are not enough leeches in the world to stop a man such as Keen. Determined to send the Dutchman to his grave and then deal with whatever force had blown up the front of the cottage, the doctor threw himself forward and struck at the legs of the chair. Van Clynne was caught off balance, and found himself being pushed backwards through the debris like a wheelbarrow, as helpless as a beached turtle bound for the soup pot. Splinters of glass and wood tangled in his hair as his head was battered against the broken chestnut floorboards.

  This new torment was cut short by a feminine voice at the door, which ordered Keen in rather salty language — we shall leave the exact collection of Anglo-Saxon to the reader's own imagination — to put up his hands and stand away from the chair.

  "I will shoot you, sir, if you do not," repeated the voice, and Keen decided he had best comply.

  The doctor knew the explosion had been caused by his own swivel cannon, and realized, too, that his minion Percival must have been the principal target of the charge. But he did not criticize himself for the arrogance that had led him to leave the coach unguarded; he would not have survived his many difficult scrapes by wasting valuable time upbraiding himself. Instead, he let go of van Clynne, promising to return to him as quickly as circumstances allowed. Taking a step backwards, he turned slowly and faced his opponent.

  Who turned out to be a thin girl all of fifteen, with naturally curly hair and a smart blush upon her cheeks, holding a small though admittedly pretty pocket pistol on him, the likes of which were rare even in London.

  Keen realized this must be the four-barreled pistol Bacon had made such a fastidious point of describing when detailing van Clynne's assistant. He told himself that Fate had once more turned in his favor — all he had to do was unarm this fetching creature, and she would undoubtedly lead him to the gun's owner. His entire mission would be wrapped up with her pretty yellow bow.

  "Come, child, you don't expect me to be scared by a mere pocket pistol."

  "Fired into your face it will be quite fatal," answered Rose. "And at this range, neither shot will miss."

  Keen smiled, but kept his hands half raised. "Where did you get such an interesting gun? I don't believe I've seen its like in any of the colonies."

  Rose ignored him. "Are you van Clynne?"

  "The one and the same," said the Dutchman, hurrying to undo his legs and get himself up from the floor. He, too, had recognized the gun, and expected that its rightful owner was outside seeing to some minor detail of the operation. "Your arrival was most precipitous. Please excuse my dress; I was occupied in medical matters. Where is my friend, Colonel Gibbs?"

  "He's busy," answered Rose.

  "What a shame he couldn't join us," ventured Keen, trying a half step forward.

  "Stand back," Rose warned him as van Clynne whisked up his outer clothes. "If you charge me I'll fire."

  The doctor smiled and retreated meekly. Rose was not so naive as to interpret this as a sign of surrender, and endeavored to keep her eyes on him — especially as van Clynne's naked and leech-bitten extremities were hardly pleasant. But Keen needed only the slightest moment to launch his attack, and when Rose turned an eye to check on the Dutchman's progress, he flew into action.

  As the British have made such a habit of doing, he greatly underestimated the strength of the American force before him. Though he knocked a candle over into a pile of shavings as a distraction, Rose was quick enough to fire two shots from the four-barreled pistol as she dodged his grasp. The first bullet missed, but the second struck Keen hard in the buttocks.

  The assassin yelped with the pain. Rose grabbed the barrels, ignoring the heat to flip them around and prepare the second round of fire. Van Clynne in the meantime grabbed the poker from the floor, wielding it before him like a bayonet.

  Temporarily outnumbered, and believing that the Dutchman's assistant must be approaching with reinforcements — surely he wouldn't have relied solely on this reed of a girl — Keen decided to beat a temporary retreat. He dove through a nearby window before Rose had the gun ready to fire again.

  Van Clynne continued his charge across the room, sweeping up the ruby-hilted knife and a pistol the British villain had taken from him. He could not fit through the window, however, and by the time he picked his way across the debris at the front of the cottage all he saw of his tormentor was a shadow disappearing into the woods. He fired anyway, and while he would later swear he hit the figure, his subsequent search discovered no evidence of this. Further pursuit was discontinued when he looked back through the trees and discovered tall red flames rising from the cottage — where all of his paper money lay.

  A Dutchman in unstoppered mourning is a pitiful thing to behold. His cheeks sag, his clothes droop, his beard — ordinarily the light red color of leaves tinged by the first blush of autumn — blackens. Even his brow is dark with the color of grief.

  Or at least with soot, as Claus van Clynne had run back to the cottage and succeeded in beating back the flames with the aid of a large blanket, though not before they had ravaged the pile of currency Keen had placed on the bench. All that remained was a single, charred quarter of a New Jersey warrant, which van Clynne picked up gingerly from the floor. As he studied it, tears began to form in his eyes; at that moment a light breeze fluttered through the half ruined cottage and caught the brittle remains, dashing them to pieces.

  It was the nadir of Claus van Clynne's earthly existence. He stood before the world landless and penniless, bereft of all possessions.


  But do we not exaggerate? After all, the Dutchman is known to have stores of money throughout the province, and considerable credit besides. True, he has a considerable pile of bills owed to lawyers and others, all connected with his thus far unsuccessful attempts to win back his family property. But the assets of the van Clynne clan have never been measured in mere financial terms. Forget the rings around his fingers, or the silver buttons— disguised by cheap gold paint—on his vest and coat: the true worth of Claus van Clynne can never be measured by his money, but by the fertile workings of his Dutch brain. For who else in the entire province could turn such a catastrophic loss so quickly into a potential for further gain?

  At least that is how he consoled himself when he hoisted himself aboard one of the carriage horses and trotted behind the determined young Rose, who had resumed her mission to General Putnam.

  "I would say that your arrival was timely, indeed, but I would not go so far as to say that it was essential to my well-being. In fact, I would posit that had you not arrived when you did, I would right now be concluding my interrogation of my captor on several points of interest."

  "And what would those be?"

  "With all due respect, young miss, I do not think matters of high intelligence should be blabbed about on the common roadways where anyone can hear. It is but a few minutes to dawn, and I expect the entire countryside is already awake around us."

  Van Clynne shifted uncomfortably on the horse. He did not like riding without a saddle and the beast seemed to like it even less, shaking its head and hesitating even though the pace was an easy one.

  "You were covered with leeches when I arrived. You would have bled to death."

  "Hardly. As a matter of fact, the bleeding was quite a tonic," said van Clynne. "I have been feeling too sanguine of late."

  "You said you were feeling ill a minute ago."

  "A good portion of my fortune has vanished in those flames," said van Clynne. "But there is no need to sulk. I intend on pressing my claims before General Putnam for full reimbursement, as the money was destroyed by enemy forces while I was engaged on a lawful mission for His Excellency General Washington — "

  "Piffle."

  "A lawful mission and I am entitled to full recovery, as designated by congressional act and amply illustrated by precedents dating to the Romans. I shall call on you to testify; it is the least you can do, given your role in my personal disaster."

  "I saved your life! You are an ingrate!"

  "I am not ungrateful for your exertions," said the Dutchman. "I am merely pointing out that they did not come without a price. As you are young, and therefore open to impressions, I have endeavored to give you the full picture of the situation, so that you may hereafter improve yourself. It is called learning, and a child such as yourself should be thankful for it. Now, if you were Dutch — "

  "Dutch?"

  "A Dutch girl has a certain education from the womb. I do not mean to criticize your parentage, since it is not a manner of choice for the most part. And I have had stout ale brewed by an Irish housewife that ranks with the best of them," added van Clynne. That was near the highest compliment he could pay, though of course Rose did not know it. "But on the whole, on the average that is, the Dutch — do not take this wrongly, but a Dutch girl in your place would not have let my notes lie burning on the bench, for example."

  Rose pulled her horse short and turned to confront her new companion. "I will take this abuse no longer," she warned.

  "Abuse?" Van Clynne was not used to being addressed in such a tone by anyone, let alone a waif of a girl. Still, he was in a most generous mood — the bloodletting had removed many of the heavier humors from his body. "Dear, I am afraid you misunderstand me. I am not criticizing you, but praising you."

  "Colonel Gibbs said you would complain about everything from your horse to the weather. But he did not say I should stand still for personal attacks. Remember I am armed, sir, with his own pistol."

  "Have you heard me utter one word of complaint the entire time we have been together?"

  "Hardly," she said satirically.

  "I rest my case," said the Dutchman, prodding his horse to continue.

  Van Clynne could not stay quiet, of course, but he turned his discourse to more neutral topics, settling on the state of the roads. He explained they had grown considerably more dusty since the British took stewardship of the area from the Dutch, and indeed were now in such an advanced state of ruin the wilden would hardly consider them cleared sufficiently for a planting of corn.

  "Here we are," said van Clynne as they reached a fork. "To the right."

  "No, this is the road to the general's headquarters," said Rose.

  "Obviously in the dim light your tender eyes were momentarily clouded. Blink them twice, and follow me on the proper path."

  "Your way heads east, mine is west. The Peek Skill Creek is west, is it not? And the general's headquarters in the village that lies near it?"

  "The general's headquarters is indeed in the village near the creek," said van Clynne. "But we are not fish. My road will lead us to a shortcut and thence to another and a third. We will arrive in an hour at most."

  "This will take us back to the Post Road," countered Rose. "And even a flying horse would take two hours to get to the general."

  "Indeed. And we will be here all morning if you do not respect your elders and do as I say. Come." The Dutchman kicked his horse for the first time since he had boarded. The animal was so surprised he turned his head back to see if perhaps he had gotten a new master.

  "My way," said the girl firmly, starting down it.

  Now if there is one thing Claus van Clynne is truly and justly praised for, it is his knowledge of the road system of the province of New York. Indeed, the Dutchman has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the highways and byways of the eastern half of the continent, and could find his way from Georgia to Vincennes with little difficulty. He especially prided himself on his intimate familiarity with shortcuts; if there was a way to cut five minutes off a route, he not only knew it but could point to an alley shaving another two.

  Nor was his ability failing him here, though he might have admitted under different circumstances that Putnam's headquarters could be reached from the left as well as the right fork. But, aside from the sour mood inflicted by the loss of his walking-around money, Rose's manner put him off. She had been somewhat disagreeable since their first acquaintance, and hardly acted with the deference his station as leader of their delegation demanded. He stuck his nose into the air and declined further comment, riding on and expecting Rose to come galloping up behind.

  She did not. In fact, she decided to let go of the carriage horse she had tied behind her own so she could increase her speed northward to General Putnam. She was not only sure her way was the right one, she was happy to be free of the Dutchman and his laggard pace. Her heels eagerly found her mount's ribs in an effort to make up lost time.

  Losing the horse was a critical mistake, though there was no way she could have known it. Had the animal not been left to stand idly at the intersection, the shadow lurking on the road half a league behind would have been forced to give up his chase, as the pain from his wounded rump had not responded satisfactorily to the cures he had administered. This was due in no small part to the aggravation caused by trotting behind his quarry.

  But presented with a horse, Major Dr. Harland Keen saw the prospects for the swift completion of his mission improve greatly. Before climbing onto its back, he took two small bottles from the brown leather satchel he'd removed from the carriage. The contents of one were smeared as a salve on his wound; the other was divided between himself and the horse, man and animal taking an immense gulp.

  The effects of the second bottle hit Keen more quickly than those of the first. His head lightened, and he felt his heart pounding in his chest with new energy. He boosted himself up on the animal's back, and found the mare as frisky as a two-year-old Arabian. The horse actually rose on he
r rear legs, anxious to run.

  But before he could set out, he faced a choice — which road had they taken?

  Keen had been too far behind to hear their arguing, and so had no way of knowing that either path would lead to one of his enemies. He decided to head down one until he reached some town or settlement; if he could find no trace of the fat Dutchman and the undernourished girl, he would retrace his steps and try the other.

  There was no doubt in his mind that he would eventually find them, deliver his revenge, and then move on to apprehend the Gibbs character. In fact, Keen might be fairly said to be driven by the prospect of revenge, especially against the girl, whose actions at the cottage had catapulted her to the head of his list of likely candidates for experimentation.

  Left or right?

  He chose the left fork, for no other reason than it seemed to be the one his horse preferred, its nose already aimed in that direction.

  -Chapter Twenty-six-

  Wherein, Jake becomes a Tory leader, for the good of the Cause.

  The sun's advance rays were just tickling the horizon as Jake secured the door of the barn where he had tied up the militia guards. He had little time to celebrate and bare seconds to catch his breath. The American spy feared one or two of the Tory prisoners inside the church might fight off the effects of their late-night drinking and notice he was gone.

  Deciding to reenter the church through the choir window, Jake took two long pieces of rope from the barn and knotted them together. After listening at the door for any sound inside — none yet — he knotted a large circle in the rope, stood back and threw it up, hoping to hook around one of the wooden staves that stood in the bell tower window above. Two tries and nothing; by the third Jake was working on a story to explain his coming through the front door. On his fifth try, he caught a metal spike in the ledge. He was up the side and in the church so quickly that the parson would have applauded, thinking that only a soul bent on salvation — and enamored with his sermons — could move so quickly.