by Jim DeFelice
Despite the thick clouds obscuring its path, the sun had already reached its meridian point in the sky when "General" van Clynne dispatched an advance party of his troops to scout the defenses of the second cove. As he waited with his main force, the Dutchman found his thoughts beginning to wander. He thought of his favorite gelding, left at the Mischief Inn; he thought of his companion Jake Gibbs, undoubtedly still disguised among the ranger troop.
And he thought, alas, of the river, and the dangers of traveling upon it if the Tories had been missed.
For a moment van Clynne wondered if it might be prudent in that case to hold his assault off until dark, when he would at least have the advantage of not seeing the waves before him.
But then a voice spoke in loud tones to his inner ear. It was so cantankerous, so cranky, so dour, that it could only belong to one person — Grandfather van Clynne.
"Listen to me, you no-account youngster, and listen good. This is your chance to win back our homestead. Get your fat arse out on the river or I will kick it there. Fail me, and never call yourself a van Clynne again!"
"Sir? General van Clynne?"
Van Clynne shook the apparition out of his brain and looked across at Private Martin, who had addressed him.
"General?"
"Hereditary general, remember," said van Clynne. "Captain-general, triple-cluster."
"Whatever you say, sir," said Martin. "There are horses and boats by the river, but only one guard," continued the private. "Should we attack?"
"Stealth, my boy, that is our strategy," said van Clynne. "I remember advising my good friend His Excellency General Washington the same thing on the eve of Trenton."
"You were at Trenton with General Washington?"
"Well, not precisely at the time," said the Dutchman, turning to his men. "You two execute a flanking maneuver from the roadside, you three come up the shoreline. The rest of us will give you a five-minute start, and then we will descend on them all, shouting like wilden."
"Wilden?"
"Indians, lad, Indians. Honestly, how long have you boys lived in this country?"
Whether van Clynne had actually been in the vicinity of Trenton — and the reader would be well advised to consume the full contents of his salt wagon before accepting that statement at face value — his plan here worked perfectly. The lone ranger guard was surprised and routed without firing a shot. While the man at first refused to give any information, van Clynne's direction that he be tied to a tree with a bonfire started at his feet soon changed his opinion.
Unfortunately, he knew nothing beyond the fact that the rangers had arrived here two hours before and taken boats out to meet the British warship, and that Captain Busch had arrived in a frenzy fifteen minutes ago, searching for a man named Smith or Gibbs.
The North River swelled and roiled angrily as the Dutchman turned to face it. With a gulp, he turned back quickly to shore.
"What I wouldn't give now for a cold pewter cup of nut-brown ale," sighed the Dutchman.
"There's bound to be some waiting aboard ship," said a voice that sounded suspiciously like his grandfather's.
-Chapter Thirty-four-
Wherein, Jake and the Tories reach the Richmond.
We shall turn back time to briefly summarize the actions of the rangers during the last two hours, as we have missed some coming and going while attending Claus van Clynne and his brave group of Connecticut men.
Earl Graycolmb, the villains' sponsor, would no doubt have been proud of the way the rangers rallied from their humiliating trials to arrive in grandeur at the obscure river landing west of Clark's Corners at midmorning. Their spirits had been quite restored, and even the sergeant felt his headache lifting slightly — until he dismounted.
A half-dozen large whaleboats had been secreted near the shore. The Tories needed only three, and even then could have fit several more men aboard each. After leaving a single man to guard the horses, they set out for their waterborne rendezvous. Though they were several hours early, they soon spotted a small boat headed upriver in their direction. Two volleys from the rangers were answered by a single pistol shot, and the sergeant quickly directed his men toward what proved to be one of the Richmond's boats.
The inexperienced rowers had difficulty coordinating their strokes at first, earning various shouts of derision from the midshipman in charge of the Richmond's craft. Finally, they began to make progress, and within an hour spotted the frigate, which lay south of Dobb's Ferry, a Tory stronghold.
The frigate Richmond was smaller and lighter than the immense ships of the line that stood at the head of Britain's naval might. She carried only thirty-two cannon and was designed to be manned by just over two hundred men; even a smallish third-rater would have twice as many guns and more than twice as many men, sitting a full deck higher in the water. Nonetheless, the Richmond was impressive in the comparatively narrow confines of the river, lording it over her escort the Mercury, a 20-gun craft with a checkered career whom she had captured earlier in the year off Antigua.
The rangers approached behind the lead of the Richmond's boat, rowing alongside the ship where a series of shouts and odd whistles welcomed them to climb aboard. Their weapons were ordered left behind; they would neither require them aboard ship nor be missing them very long, the boat's mate declared.
Jake leapt to one of the manropes and walked himself up the side of the ship to the entry port. This was a bit harder to do in practice than in theory, as the river was moving with particular vigor, rocking the ship back and forth. Jake mistimed his first leap, catching the painted yellow hull with one boot and one knee; unfortunately, this was the knee he had hurt several days before. His ligaments promptly reminded him he had not kept his promise to go easy on them.
Aboard ship, a sailor greeted the rangers with a contemptuous sneer. Obviously some sort of petty officer, though just as clearly not a gentleman, he had a brace of pistols in his belt and a thick naval cutlass hanging from a shoulder baldric that could have been stolen from a regimental drummer, given its ornate design and incongruity with the rest of his dress. This consisted of striped trousers that appeared loose enough for harem duty and a white shirt that had more stains than the average dishrag. If Jake were not playing the role of a Tory he would have found it difficult to maintain a straight face.
There was, nonetheless, a primitive efficiency about the man, as well as an air of toughness that perhaps owed more to the tavern district of the city where he had been recruited than life at sea. Jake nodded at him, and joined the other rangers loosely mustering at the side of the deck, next to a large, long crate covered by a canvas sheet. The identity of the item or items was concealed by the tarpaulin, which dominated that quarter of the deck and was guarded by two marines with loaded weapons.
A handful of other lobster-coats milled in the general vicinity, but they left the rangers to themselves, as if some native disease might infect them if they got too close. The sailors in the meantime went about their business without giving much notice to anyone, indiscriminate scowls pasted to their faces.
When the troop was all aboard, their sergeant attempted to muster them into order behind the tarpaulin. At that point, two officers approached. Had their feet not touched the broad deck planks they could scarce have had less authority about them. Nor was this air due solely to their elegant, long blue coats or the immaculate white knickers and vests. Their long, confident strides carried them quickly across the oaken deck, and the two marines assigned as their guard had to practically trot to keep up. The sailor who had shown the rangers aboard turned up at their right and announced in a loud voice that he had the honor of presenting his lordship Earl Graycolmb's Doughty Rangers to Captain John Lewis Gidoin and the honorable, if still somewhat young, Captain Sir George Valden.
The men could have been presented to King George himself with less fuss. The ranger sergeant, clearly awed, stepped forward and saluted.
"Captain. Captain. I am Sergeant Robert Lewis, t-tempora
rily in charge of Earl Graycolmb's Loyal — "
Captain Valden did not wait for Lewis to finish before demanding to know where in shitten hell — and worse — Busch was.
Lewis was not exactly a choir mouse, and had heard stronger language even on the Sabbath. Nonetheless, the spew of curses that emanated from Valden's mouth in connection with his question took the sergeant by surprise. In his view of the world, British gentlemen — and most especially anyone to whom the word "sir" was ascribed as an adjective — spoke in words that wouldn't flutter the meekest butterfly.
"Well, speak up, you arse. What the shitten damn hell happened to Captain Busch?"
"He's been detained, sir," said Jake when the sergeant was unable to speak.
"Detained where?"
"We were ambushed by the river during our mission to spy on the chain."
"And the sister-rogering turd rebels captured him?"
"No, sir, he escaped, but was unable to make it back to the rendezvous." Jake thought it wise not to mention his own adventures in jail, though that meant suppressing a desire to hear what new concoction of curses the inventive British captain might cobble together in his honor.
"See what comes of working with goddamn catch-fart Americans," Sir Valden said to Gidoin. "Mr. Washington undoubtedly knows the entire operation by now."
"Begging your pardon, sir," said Jake, "but General Washington is many miles away in New Jersey."
"Mister Washington," Valden corrected. The accordance of honor to the American general was a touchy subject for many British officers.
"How do you know where he is?"
A not inappropriate question, Jake thought to himself before telling Gidoin that it was common knowledge. "Even the farm waifs keep track of their hero," he added cheerfully. "It's a sport for them, just as many Londoners watch the king."
The parallel was not appreciated. Gidoin and Valden moved back a few paces to discuss how to proceed. More than Busch's failure to arrive, they were bothered by the disappearance of Major Johnson, the disguised marine officer who had been sent to help coordinate the operation. Johnson was supposed to have sent a second ranger group to the ship for the mission; both he and the Royalist had failed to show up as scheduled last night.
"Begging your pardon, sirs," said Jake, overhearing. "Our captain believed that Major Johnson was captured by the enemy. He was pursued and involved me in a stratagem to escape, but has not been seen nor heard from since. Our captain did not care a whit for him; we proceeded beautifully without him, and I daresay we will continue to do so."
Jake's voice was confident, and he spoke almost as if he were bragging about the Tory group's exploits. But he fully realized that the British officers would pay attention to the substance of what he said, not the style. He could thus fan their caution while seeming to boast of his group's fearlessness.
Sergeant Lewis, angry at being usurped and somewhat over his shock, stepped up to join him. "Sirs, begging your pardon, but my men and I are quite ready to proceed without Captain Busch or this Johnson fellow."
"Yes," added Jake. "I can supply all the intelligence we need about the chain. I walked out on it myself. There are no more than two dozen batteries concealed along the eastern shore north of Anthony's Nose, and I doubt that any of the American ships we saw are much bigger than this."
"How many ships?" asked Gidoin.
"I couldn't say precisely, sir, as it was dark and the masts tended to blend together. They were cowardly in any event, hiding upriver."
To every question the British commander asked, Jake replied with a boast and well-turned lie, making light of the defenses on the one hand, while greatly multiplying them on the other. His was the work of the greatest alchemist, his tongue a veritable philosopher's stone, creating from whole cloth — nay, from discarded wool — an army and navy several times the size of the largest force available on the continent. To order an attack against it, the British commanders would display a degree of stupidity unusual even for their breed. Even the marine guards accompanying them shuddered with Jake's description.
Jake continued on blithely, as if unaware of the effect of his words. Indeed, he stated quite clearly that he was ready to lead the force himself, and volunteered to command a vanguard of forlorn hope that would launch itself in rowboats, swim the thirty or forty leagues to the chain under fire from the shore batteries, climb past the two rows of raft obstacles and dive on the twelve-inch-thick chain, sawing it in half with the files they'd carry between their teeth.
"We already have a bloody-damn-well-conceived plan," said Valden in a withering voice.
"And what is that, sir? I stand ready to take my commander's place at the head of the column."
The ship's master cast a cautious eye toward the sky and bade Valden step away for a private consultation. They began discussing not only the defenses but how the bomb canoe — Jake heard the words but as yet could not make sense of them — would perform if the storm kicked up.
"I'm in charge here," muttered the sergeant to Jake under his breath. "Best remember your place."
"Captain Busch chose me to go with him to the chain, not you," said Jake defiantly. "I'll not back down before you, or before General Washington and his horde of rebel thieves."
Five more minutes of this, the patriot spy thought to himself as he folded his arms over his chest in mock satisfaction, and they'll pack me off to Bristol to recruit regulars.
Gidoin and Valden broke off their conference. They stepped forward and addressed both Jake and the sergeant, much to the latter's consternation.
"In light of the situation," said Valden, "we are going to delay the attack until tomorrow evening. In that time, perhaps Major Johnson or your Captain Busch will reach us."
"Begging your pardon, sirs," said the sergeant, desperate to boost his image, "but why should we wait for either of them? I am ready to lead the way."
"Johnson planned the diversionary assault on Peekskill," said Valden. "It's his to lead. I'm not committing my marines to a donkey ass plan under the command of goddamn colonial half-wits."
"I know Peekskill as well as any man born here," said Sergeant Lewis, fired up by the insults.
"And as for the chain — "
"Let me go against the chain," declared Jake.
"I don't think — "
Jake turned quickly to the men. "Who will join me?" he thundered. "Who will come with me for the honor of God and king? Who will defy certain death at these bastards' hands, face down their guns, and defy their bullets! I have seen their defenses and I don't care what the odds are — I say death is a noble thing in the name of our cause!"
Not surprisingly, no one stepped forward.
"Then I'll go myself!" he declared boldly. "I'll swim there if necessary and beat the damn Americans with my bare hands."
"Brave words. I could hear them halfway across the river."
All eyes on deck turned toward the entry port, where a man in shirt sleeves had just hauled himself up. His hair waved in the breeze, and his cheeks were flush, not with the exertion of hauling up the side of the ship but with anger.
"Arrest him," said Captain Busch, in his voice a barely controlled fury. He jabbed his finger at Jake as he walked across the deck. "The man is an American agent."
-Chapter Thirty-five-
Wherein, Jake's true allegiance is revealed, and he gets all choked up about it.
You damnable bastard," said Busch as his short but rapid strides brought him to his enemy. "You are as evil a traitor to king and peace as any man in this land."
There was a moment of shocked stillness on the deck, perfect quiet as the rangers, the ship's complement, even the birds and animals of the surrounding shores, all stopped what they were doing and stared at the accused. Busch, whose fury welled so greatly that he was unable to continue speaking, moved his hand to slap Jake across the face. But Jake's reflexes were too quick for him, grabbing the arm and stopping it mid-air.
"I treated you as a brother,"
said Busch as he broke his hand free. "I trusted you."
The glare between the two men was as palpable as an iron rod. As yet, Jake had made no comment, offered no defense. He had faced such difficult moments before, and knew the best strategy was to continue the bluff through. But never had the impulse to throw off his disguise and declare his proper allegiance been so strong.
"What the hell is this about?" demanded Sir George Valden.
Busch's glare of scorn momentarily mixed with a hint of regret before he turned to Valden.
"I am Captain John Busch of His Lordship Earl Graycolmb's Rangers," Busch said. "Arrest this man as a traitor."
It was the sergeant, of all people, who spoke in Jake's defense.
"He led a prison break, and helped get us here." The sergeant's eyes went back and forth, from one man to the other. "How can you be a traitor?"
"The prison break was arranged," said Busch. "A man named Wedget told me all."
At that, the rangers began to murmur, and a few even to laugh, saying they knew of Wedget, and believed Caleb and Jake's story that he had been left behind for bullying the others. Busch put up his hand to silence them. "He has cleverly arranged everything, including an attempt on my life. His name is not Smith, it's Gibbs."
Until that moment Jake had been undecided on his course, content to let Busch state his case so it might be more easily refuted. But as Jake saw the British officers eying him suspiciously, he realized that even if they hadn't been by nature inclined to prefer a captain's suspicious word above the faith of an army of privates, they would certainly detain him for further investigation. Inevitably he would be found out.
And so, sensing that the locks about to be slapped around his arms were held by Fate herself, Jake decided he would go to his death as a man, not a rat shrinking in the corner. Along the way, he would do what he could to preserve his mission, which now depended on van Clynne and Rose, and General Putnam's troops.