by Jim DeFelice
Jake found the choir loft empty as before. Leaving the rope dangling outside, he crept to the balcony, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior. When he saw the coast was clear he retrieved the rope, coiling it in the corner, then slipped over the choir rail and plummeted to the floor.
This was not a particularly quiet operation, and in fact he cursed aloud, echoing his knee's complaints. He proceeded to walk noisily through the church, carelessly kicking pieces of wood and a man or two lying on the floor. A complete circuit brought him back to the front door, where what began as a cautious knock soon developed into a very loud bang.
While their homemade hooch had rendered the prisoners nearly unconscious, Jake by now was making enough noise to wake the dead. Of course, the dead might have woken with less ill-effect — his pounding echoed and amplified the pounding between their temples, and the first reaction Jake heard behind him was a collection of groans and undisguised threats.
"Smith, Smith, what the hell are you doing?" called Caleb Evans, stumbling toward him.
"There's no one guarding the front door. Help me."
"What do you mean?"
"Come on." Jake stepped back and took a running jab at heavy wooden door, pounding against it with his shoulder. The hinges barely creaked.
Caleb watched in bewilderment as he tried a second time. "Are you sure?"
"Don't you think the guards would be pounding on the other side if they were there?" Jake was so caught up in his role that he was out of breath. He wished he'd had the foresight to remove the strong board placed as a block across the door outside; as it now stood they would need several men rushing against it at once to break it down.
"The boy said the attack would come two hours after dawn," said Caleb, looking up at the soft light filtering into the church from the upper windows. "That's still a long way off."
"I was watching from the loft when the militia guards left," said Jake. "They ran off down the street with their weapons and haven't come back. Who knows what sort of trick Captain Busch is playing on them — we shouldn't wait to see if it fails." Jake took another run at the door, wincing as he rebounded. "Are you going to help me?"
Caleb's brain was still muddled by the effects of the drink. He continually blinked his eyes, as if focusing them could sharpen his thoughts.
"The boy said they would come for us," he said finally. The words were somewhat slurred. "I think we should wait."
"Were we supposed to stay in the jail after we were rescued?'1 argued Jake. "They've obviously made whatever decoy attack they were planning, and we're supposed to take care of the rest."
By now most of the other men had gotten up from their straw beds and staggered forward. The majority were simple farmers, and while their sympathies were with the king, until their imprisonment they probably would not have considered themselves active combatants. Still, their jailing had hardened their opinions, and they were anxious to escape. Those with families were very concerned for their safety. So Jake did not have to provoke them too hard to get a consensus: there was no time like the present to leave.
The first rush at the door nearly reversed that decision, as the six volunteers were repelled not so much by the wood but the fierce pounding of blood against their brain pans. Fortunately, the barrier had started to give way, and Jake was able to organize a second posse, which split the lower panel in two. He kicked through the wood and was able to upend the wooden bar with his hand; one more bounce against the door with his shoulder and the metal lock snapped free.
He glanced at Caleb, then cautiously stepped through the portal — there was always the possibility the commotion had drawn reinforcements.
The street was as empty as a village clerk's office five minutes to supper time.
"Let's go!" he shouted from the porch. "Everyone out."
"What about Wedget?" asked one of the Tories inside.
"What about that bully bastard?" responded another. "I say, leave him to his fate."
"We ought to kill him. Damn rebels'll prob'ly set him free."
Once more Caleb and Jake exchanged glances. "I don't think that's wise," said Jake. "I think we should take him along, same as everyone."
But the sentiment was strong against him. Caleb finally shrugged — as the bully was not part of the ranger troop, he did not care to exert himself in his defense.
"Well, come on then." Jake led the group down the street, past the barn and in the direction of the bridge where he had hoped to meet van Clynne last night. He was struck by a sudden fear that he might meet the Dutchman now; the squire had a tendency to involve himself in the worst situation at the least opportune moment.
Jake need not have worried, for van Clynne was hurrying in the opposite direction, determined to show the upstart little girl that his path to Putnam was indeed shorter and faster.
Perhaps the word "hurrying" is not entirely accurate. It could be used to describe the initial stages of his journey, as he prodded his horse along the road, grumbling about the fact that children no longer showed the proper respect for their elders. He shared his theory as to how this had come to happen with his horse; in abbreviated form, it had to do with their parents allowing them to wear shoes at a young age.
The horse, who had worn his own shoes from early colt hood, did not make much comment. Nor did he respond to the Dutchman's requests to avoid hitting the ruts in the road as he traveled. But the animal was only too happy to comply when van Clynne loosened his makeshift rein and let him take a slower pace.
A considerable amount of time had now passed without van Clynne having acquainted himself with food. While one might think that his experiences with Major Dr. Keen had vanquished his appetite for good, the exact opposite was true. In fact, the Dutchman's voracious nature had been stoked beyond its usual capacity by the previous afternoon and evening's activities. The more van Clynne thought about it, the more he concluded that his way of getting to General Putnam's headquarters was so much faster than Rose's that he could easily afford a short respite from the ardors of the journey, and still beat her.
As it happened, he knew of a very accommodating innkeeper who lay a short turn off a minor detour not a quarter of a mile up the lane. With the imagined scent of bacon tickling his nose, he shook his lead and encouraged the horse to pick up his pace.
-Chapter Twenty-seven-
Wherein, the narrative ventures to the Loyalist side of the story, where the perspective takes a darker turn.
While Jake was doing his best to let himself be captured several hours earlier, Captain Busch was trying equally hard to escape. Busch had to sneak through the dense underbrush for several miles to avoid the Rhode Islanders who had ambushed them. When he reached the highway without any sight or sound of them, he took off his green coat and hat, realizing he'd increase the odds of surviving by doffing signs of his alliance.
Still, removing the coat felt perilously like striking the flag, and the ranger captain suffered a pang of regret as he stuffed the green badge of his honor beneath a rotted tree trunk. He went out onto the roadway, and paced in the dusty rut along the far side back to the south, hoping Smith would appear soon.
Busch walked back and forth like that for nearly an hour, willing his man to rush out of the woods with his cocky attitude and declare he would sooner fight the entire rebel army than surrender. When that didn't happen, Busch began to fear Smith had been captured. He trusted the new man like few others he had ever met, and knew he would keep quiet about his mission. But that alone might provoke the American rabble into killing him, especially if Smith were still wearing his uniform.
Reluctantly, the Tory admitted he must leave his subordinate temporarily to his fate. Smith had at least one chance of salvation if captured — before leaving the farm near Salem, Busch had given Sergeant Lewis strict orders to carry out the attack on the rebel jail within two hours of dawn, even if he himself hadn't returned by then. He had reasoned not only that Corporal Evans and possibly Johnson needed to be freed, but
that he and Smith might be among the internees by then.
The rebels were likely to think the spy they were chasing would head back toward British lines in the south, so Busch temporarily headed north, intending to turn west and double back as soon as possible. Still wet from his swim, the Tory leader alternately walked and trotted through the darkness. He had grown up here, and knew the countryside intimately, but much of it seemed foreign to him, as if he'd been plunked into a far-off country. He could not fathom why so many of his neighbors had allied themselves to the revolutionists. Without the stability of the crown and the order of law, he reasoned, men were no better than a pack of dogs in the woods.
Busch's mood lifted a bit when he came to the property owned by Horace Fiddler. Now retired and near seventy, Mister Fiddler had been for many years a teacher — his teacher as a matter of fact, and he flattered himself that the old man had even taken a shine to him. Tiptoeing onto his land, he recalled a morning many years before when Fiddler had praised his ciphers. He remembered the moment fondly, and used it to justify his temporary rental of the old man's horse.
With a whispered promise not to harm it, he led the old mare from the yard to the road, waiting until he was out of sight of the house to board her. The animal was not used to being ridden — Mister Fiddler hitched her to a small kittereen or two-wheeled light carriage for his travels — and turned her neck in amazement at this unfamiliar task. But Busch persevered, gently goading the animal, and was soon riding at a steady if slow pace.
As the safest path back to Stoneman's lay over Pine's Bridge anyway, Busch decided to meet up with his ranger troop as they assaulted the jail. He got off the horse as the sun dawned; by then he was no more than two miles from the small crossroads hamlet where the church was located.
Had he stayed on the horse and continued riding, even at an easy pace, he would have gotten there just in time to see the last escaping prisoner kick a bit of dirt back in the direction of the church before running to catch up with the others. But wanting to keep the borrowed horse from accidental harm, he stopped and tied her by the side of the road in front of a house he knew belonged to another former student. The man — a carpenter whose politics were radical but who was otherwise honest and fair — undoubtedly would recognize the mare and see that she was returned.
Folding his arms across his vest, Busch walked on toward the prison. It took a little over a half hour for him to arrive at the neighboring creek. From the small bridge he could see that the church door was open and there were no militia guards in sight; he walked on cautiously, realizing the operation must be over.
His plan to slip through the hamlet and continue on toward Stoneman's was ruined, however, when a man and woman emerged from the barn across from the church shouting. The two militiamen Jake had tied up earlier followed them out, and Busch saw that the entire population of the hamlet — counting children, this came to nine people — had been alerted and were running back and forth, shouting alarms.
Another person, indeed, nearly any British officer, would have faded into the woods. But Busch was a highly conscientious leader, and trusting that he could talk himself out of danger if confronted, he decided to step briefly into the church to make sure all the prisoners had escaped.
The building was deserted, except for the bully, Charles Wedget, who remained tied in the corner. Wedget had formerly been apprenticed to a tubal-cain or iron founder several miles north; Busch recognized him and knew he was a Tory sympathizer.
He also knew the oaf well enough to realize why he'd been left behind. He frowned and spun quickly on his heel.
"Free me, John Busch, or I'll give you away."
Wedget had barely closed his mouth when Busch was upon him, pistol drawn and held to his head.
"Prepare to die, then."
Tears welled in Wedget's eyes as his bully's facade crumbled like the ruins around Rome. "Save me, and I can help you. The escape was planned."
"I planned it myself," replied Busch. "Those were my rangers you saw."
"There was no troop of rangers. The guards had all disappeared. It is a rebel plot. Please," pleaded Wedget.
Busch was still considering what to do when two citizens with rifles entered the building.
"They beat this man up because he was a patriot," he said quickly, pointing at Wedget. "Apparently they're planning an attack on White Plains."
"One of them locked the guards in the barn," said the plump man in front. "We've sent for a troop of Massachusetts men."
"I'm with the Committee on Conspiracies," said Busch. "I'll go on south and alert the forces at White Plains."
"You look familiar, sir," said the man as the other untied Wedget.
Busch thrust out his hand. "John Busch."
"Are you from this area?"
"Further west, near the river." Busch turned quickly. "Myself and this man will take the road south; send someone north to General McDougall. Hurry, man; John Jay will have my head if these villains get away."
Busch's mention of the well-respected Jay — besides heading the Committee on Conspiracies, he was a member of half a dozen other patriot committees and a state judge besides — set aside any doubts and got the locals into motion. Busch was able to commandeer two horses; he and Wedget were heading for Pine's Bridge and Stoneman's beyond it before the citizens had even stumbled across the third guard tied in the woods.
At the intersection of the road to Stoneman's, Busch wheeled his horse to a halt and confronted Wedget. The bully's face immediately clouded; Busch kept his hand near his belt but realized his pistol would not be needed to gain more information.
"What was it you meant to tell me?" asked Busch. "Make it quick, man."
"Everyone got drunk last night on some squeezings we'd made."
"Everyone but yourself."
Wedget nodded. "And one other man, brought in late by the militia. He said his name was Smith, and a more suspicious lurker could not be found anywhere in the country."
Busch betrayed no emotion at the mention of his comrade, though he was glad he was alive — and not surprised Smith had withstood the temptation of alcohol. Nor did he think it unusual that such a man as Wedget would misjudge his character. But as the tale of Smith's mysterious disappearance from the loft continued, Busch felt the sharp pang a bullet makes when it enters the gut. The pain took a crooked path, wrenching much of his insides, and though he endeavored to keep his face motionless, Wedget was encouraged by the turn of his lip to embellish his tale.
"When this Smith returned," said the bully, "the guards were gone, and all of the prisoners walked free from the jail. Something had been arranged; I heard this Smith whispering outside."
"How could you have done that when you were tied in the corner?"
"I did, sir," said the bully. "The door was broken from the inside, to make the escape look genuine. The man is a traitor and a rebel, this Smith. You can tell by his eyes."
Busch took his pistol from his belt.
"Where did they go?"
"D-don't shoot me."
"I will if I find you've lied. Where did they go?"
"They were talking about a farm over the bridge."
"Come with me," said Busch, uncocking his pistol. "And pray to God my guess is right. For if I'm wrong, I'll kill you."
Wedget struggled to keep up as the Tory captain, filled with regret as well as rage, turned his horse toward Stoneman's.
-Chapter Twenty-eight-
Wherein, Jake matches wits with Sergeant Lewis in a less than Fair Fight.
Though he might have understood them, Jake was not aware of the Tory captain's strong emotions, nor did he know he had reached the church. In fact, Jake suspected that Busch was waiting at Stoneman's, and spent most of the journey from the jail to the Tory hideout rehearsing an account of his capture that might sound somewhat plausible in the commander's ears.
The motley parade of Tories encountered no resistance. Caleb and the others seemed content to let Jake take the
lead. The American secret agent kept the irony of his position to himself.
When they reached Stoneman's, they found the remnants of the ranger force in disarray. The clouds gathering overhead were but a hint of the dark mood that had descended on the supposedly unflappable irregulars. The captain had failed to return, and the attack on the jail had been forgotten as they attempted to regroup after last night's ferocious assault.
The details of what had happened were sketchy at best, and varied depending on the teller. The story gaining the most currency was that no less than three full regiments under General Alexander McDougall had overrun the corps as it slept. The rebels were said to have been beaten off by a determined counterattack, the rangers' only ally the attackers' inherent cowardice. Even so, the barn had been set ablaze, several horses lost, and a sentry killed. In addition, one of the servants seemed to have been carried off as a war prize.
Sergeant Lewis was wearing a bandage that swelled his already large head to twice its normal size. He was in a dismal, cranky mood, and not even the news of the bloodless escape from the rebel jail could cheer him.
A pugnacious sort who wore his ranger beanie far forward on his head when it wasn't injured, Lewis had just the kind of bravery for which Tories are known. While his commander and the British were nearby, he strutted back and forth in his fine boots, tugging at his green jacket with all the pride of an Italian prince. But under the pressure of the night's difficulties, his fine facade had crumbled. He was now a testament to indecision, inclined to wait at the farm for Busch to arrive, even if that took the rest of the war.
"Well, ya made sumthin' of yerself, at least," he said to Jake after hearing the erstwhile ranger's report of the adventure. "Ya might as well see if ya can scrounge up some breakfast. The girl's run off — or was carried away, whichever. We'll be here a while."