The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  "Did a girl named Rose meet you?"

  "She did indeed, but I decided it would be most efficient if we divided our efforts, taking separate routes," said the Dutchman. "I sent her by the shortest route possible, while I meandered on a side road. I have no doubt that she reached the general, and that the entire army of the Highlands is presently on alert."

  A fresh broadside whizzed through the air, and the three Americans found themselves in a cloud of steam and hot waves. When it cleared, Jake saw a cutter emerging from the far side of the Richmond, beginning its pursuit. The boat was manned by oarsmen and had a sail besides, and moved toward them with the speed and deadly purpose of a bloodthirsty shark.

  "Throw your body against the tiller to steady it," Jake shouted at van Clynne. "Take us to the shore. It's our only chance."

  "We only have to get around that bend," said van Clynne, pointing ahead briefly before closing his eyes to steady his stomach.

  "We don't stand a chance on the water."

  "We have a surprise waiting for the British bastards," said Martin. "General van Clynne is quite clever."

  "General van Clynne?"

  "Captain-general," expanded Martin, with only the slightest hint of impishness, "triple-cluster."

  "It is a hereditary title which I seldom use," said van Clynne. "Row, man, row."

  Jake's response was drowned out by yet another round of cannon fire from the ship. Fortunately, this proved to be a rather half-hearted attempt at striking them, and only one ball came near enough to present a threat.

  It was also close enough to send van Clynne's beloved beaver hat sailing into the water.

  The hat had been in the Dutchman's possession since he was a small lad, and had been constructed from pelts hand-selected for him by members of a small Iroquois Indian band who had befriended his father. And so van Clynne's reaction was natural — momentarily forgetting not only his duties as helmsman but his phobia of the waves, he threw himself across the gunwale and snatched it from the water.

  His effort came exceedingly close to spilling them overboard, and it was only with the greatest effort that Jake and Private Martin were able to keep the craft afloat. All forward momentum was lost, and the cutter was able to make significant progress toward them — so much so that a marine in the bow felt he was close enough to stand and fire.

  His shot splintered a piece of the gunwale between Jake and van Clynne, but its main effect was to rally the Americans back to action.

  "Push the tiller to your left, to your left!" ordered Jake as he struggled to get them moving again. "Take us in to shore!"

  "I'm trying," answered van Clynne, his face a mixture of determination and nausea. The cove he had launched from was nestled like the mouth of a funnel between two large outcroppings of rocks and fallen trees; it seemed to have moved three miles in the few hours since he'd left.

  By the time they made the turn, the Richmond's boat had closed to within thirty yards. As Jake pumped his oar, he watched the sharpshooter place another cartridge at the top of his gun barrel, then ram it home with a deliberate and determined motion. The churning current threw off his aim, however, and the bullet sailed well overhead.

  No matter. He calmly prepared another shot.

  The cutter had been put under the direction of a senior midshipman, whose shouts and curses echoed against the banks. When he saw that the whaleboat was turning toward shore, he trimmed his vessel for a sweeping turn that would protect against a possible feint and run for the north. There was blood in his voice, and undoubtedly he hoped a successful action would play heavily in his quest for an officer's commission.

  The cannon and gunfire had one positive effect, considered from the American side — the Connecticut men on shore were well prepared as their "general's" boat rounded the rock outcropping and slid toward the cove.

  Which meant that they were nowhere in sight; not a comforting fact for Jake as he pulled with all his might. Poor Martin two benches before him was exhausted and ready to drop; only the danger of their situation kept him upright at his post, the doughty private struggling on pure willpower alone.

  As the cutter cleared the rocks behind them, the sniper prepared another shot. His boat pressed to overtake the Americans before they reached the shore, and angled between the rocky shore on the right side and sunken tree branches on the left. The distance between the two boats shrank steadily from twenty yards to ten, until finally they were within spitting distance. The cutter continued to gain as it neared the submerged tree trunk on the left, a mere twenty yards from shore.

  Jake had just realized they would not reach the pebbly beach when a shout went up from the rocks. In that instant, the water in front of the cutter rose up mightily and the ship was upended, marines and sailors flying in all directions.

  "This chain of yours gave me an idea," said van Clynne as Jake put down his oars in astonishment. "A rope can be made to serve the same purpose, if it is a thick, fine rope levered with trees and stout men. The van Clynne of ropes, in fact."

  The rope was that magnificent weave of hemp discovered earlier in Stoneman's. Those same stout men who had pulled it taut at the last possible instant now emerged from the woods, muskets loaded with double shot. The water perked with good, American lead, well aimed; a froth of blood quickly covered the surface, and the whine of stricken Englishmen soon filled the air. Jake, Martin, and van Clynne were pulled ashore, and the Connecticut company gave a shout of hurrah as the survivors of their ambush quickly surrendered.

  But there was no time to celebrate.

  "Gentlemen, you've done good work here, but our battle is just beginning," declared Jake as the troop reformed. His officer's voice hit full stride as Freedom herself perked up his timbre. "The province's safety, and perhaps of our whole country, relies on the integrity of the Great Chain thrown across the Hudson north of here. Even as I speak, a force of despicable Tories and British marines are mustering against it. The Continentals who have been alerted may not realize where the real danger is, and so it is up to us — we will have to stop them. We will have to kill the Tory bastards with our bare hands if we have to! Get the horses and follow me!"

  "Begging your pardon, sir," said one of the men respectfully. "But Captain-General van Clynne is our leader. He has taken us this far."

  "That reminds me — "

  "Gentlemen, I turn over my command to Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs," the Dutchman said quickly. "He has a tactical sense of the situation that I could not possibly challenge. When we have finished this next phase of our assault, I shall, er, resume my rightful position."

  Jake was in too much of a hurry to scold van Clynne on his shameless self-promotion. Nor did he note tartly, as he might have, that the Dutchman was coming up in the world, having progressed from a landless squire to a general of fantastic rank.

  "Take the horses and follow me," Jake shouted, running to the animals the rangers had tied here. His boots were still sodden from his brief plunge in the water before boarding the whaleboat, but he nonetheless managed to leap atop the biggest horse he saw.

  “Claus, the best road north along the river,” Jake commanded. “We need to reach Anthony's Nose before nightfall."

  "Less than an hour," grumbled the Dutchman, heading for his horse. "They are not making days as long as they used to."

  -Chapter Thirty-nine-

  Wherein, certain matters of strategy and geography are laid out as the two forces race northward.

  As they raced northwards, Jake was somewhat surprised to find that van Clynne, contrary to his usual habits, not only galloped along every bit as fast as the rest of the company, but hardly uttered half his usual complaints against the roads, the weather, or the British. He didn't even open his mouth to show them shortcuts, merely pointing the way to country paths that sliced off precious moments from their route. Perhaps the mantle of leadership agreed with him.

  Jake realized Busch's plan had a major flaw — the Tory would be highly vulnerable once he separat
ed from the diversionary forces and the Dependence. The trick for the patriots would be to get around the screening ranger force and avoid the Dependence.

  The woods of upper Westchester were heavy with shadows, and the leaves crinkled with the ever-growing rain. Jake put up his hand to halt the column and let it catch its collective breath while he consulted with van Clynne.

  "Where can we get boats along the river near Peeks Kill?" he asked the Dutchman.

  "During peaceful times I would direct us to Lent's Cove," said van Clynne, "as we are only a few miles away. But Annsville Creek further north will be much surer. Francis Penmart's Dock is near the road to the King's Highway, and inevitably there will be boats idle."

  "Can I get to the chain from Lent's Cove?"

  "In almost a straight line north," conceded van Clynne. "But if they are attacking ashore, the British will most likely land at the cove and move northwards, as they did at the end of March. I know a man named Green who lives on the cove," added the Dutchman, twirling his beard. "He inflates his prices and his politics have been questioned. Now, on the Annsville, there is a good Dutchman who will rent his craft out for a few pence below the going rate, and they are a higher quality besides."

  "Take us to Green." Jake glanced northward, as if he could see their destination through the thick trees and growing rain. It was almost nightfall; the attack might already be underway. "We'll risk whatever we must to make up the time. If we run into the rangers, I will go ahead to the river or wherever I can find a boat. You lead the men."

  "But if we stay inland, our chances — "

  "Come on, General, there's no time to lose," smirked Jake, picking up his horse's reins and getting the party into motion again with a good kick of his heels. "I would think a captain-general would not waste a moment when the enemy is at hand."

  "It is a hereditary title only," mumbled van Clynne.

  The Tories had proceeded upriver at a slower though nonetheless deliberate pace, shepherded by the Dependence. Their first test came at King's Ferry, which despite the name was held by American troops.

  The Dependence fired a few shots from her smaller guns above the ferry at Verplanck's Point, which was lightly and in truth poorly manned. A few muskets answered from the primitive earthworks, but the British forces didn't tarry long enough to be bothered by them. The stretch of river north of Verplanck's was ordinarily a calm lake, lying placidly below Dunderbury Mountain; the Dependence and her accompanying boats made their way slowly along the eastern shore, conserving their strength for the coming attack as the weather steadily rose against them.

  The river forms a V here, with the Peeks Kill at the vortex. As the assault was launched, the Dependence would draw the attention of the defenders near the riverside and inland at the camps near Robinson's Bridge that have come to be known as Continental Village. The marines and rangers, meanwhile, would come ashore in the relative calm of Lent's Cove, an easy landing area removed from the main rebel positions. This would allow them to form up before proceeding inland. The strategy followed roughly the same pattern taken during a raid earlier in the year, and the marines could walk through it with their eyes closed.

  Busch and his bomb canoe, meanwhile, would slip upstream to the chain. He would have to stay as close to the eastern shore as possible to avoid Forts Clinton and Montgomery, which lay directly across the narrow neck of the river from his target.

  Lieutenant Clark, the master of the Dependence, inspected his vessel as they reached their staging area. Already the night was falling, and the pistol which would launch the attack was loaded and stuck in his belt.

  Busch, walking the long deck and scanning the empty river, kept to himself. This day was the culmination of many weeks of planning; now that it had come, he felt a certain stillness inside his chest, a quiet even more profound than his studied outward manner. He had no doubt that he was about to strike a death blow to the Revolution; in so doing, he would also win much glory for himself. But his thoughts were not focused on that, nor even on the difficulties of the mission ahead. For one brief moment he looked southward on the river in the direction of the Richmond. Smith — or Gibbs, if that was his true name — would be dead by now. A twinge of regret wandered through the depths of the Tory's soul, for he recognized that under different circumstances the two men might have been good friends.

  But Gibbs had made a fatal mistake, placing his own ego before that of his sovereign's; all of these rebels had done this in their hubris, and now they must pay for it.

  Lieutenant Clark met Busch at the bow of the ship, standing near the massive gun that made the galley the most fearsome raider above New York. Even in the growing shadows and light rain it was an impressive weapon, with a bulk that belonged to a living thing. The wooden carriage that cradled it seemed a squat elephant, taken from the Hindoo wilds. The large iron pipe was a lion's prone body, coiled and ready to strike.

  The deck around her had been cleared and made ready for action; the gun crew stood to one side, watching as the captain studied the far shore with his spyglass. Many of these men had been with Clark aboard the Phoenix when the galley was captured, and were the hardened salt of the sea, prepared to follow him up the River Styx if necessary.

  The marines, bayonets sharpened and musket locks covered with protective cloth against the weather, stood amidships, trying to pretend that they were not nervous about the pending battle. A supply of whale oil, as well as candlewood and kindling, had been stored in a row of casks; half the countryside would soon be on fire, if the weather allowed.

  The rest of the ship's complement was at battle stations, straining their eyes to see if the rebels on shore had spotted them. There were no signs that they had, though they fully expected word of their arrival would have been passed by now.

  "Are you ready?" Clark asked Busch.

  "More than ready," said the captain.

  "Then let's go."

  He nodded at the gunners and the crew instantly sprang to work, readying their large cannon. As the match was raised, Clark handed Busch the pistol from his belt. The Tory captain smiled at the honor, and nodded in appreciation at the finely crafted gun — then fired. Instantly, the gunners answered with their own personal hurrah: the thick, throaty roar of the massive lion by their side.

  Even before the huge ball struck through the roof of one of the homes along the river, the British boats had begun to strain for the western shore.

  Though neither Rose nor van Clynne had managed to alert them, the patriot defenses were not idle. Even before the gunfire at Verplanck's, lookouts had spotted the Dependence and the other boats heading north, and had signaled an alarm with the aid of a series of tower signals and beacon fires that formed a chain of their own up and down the valley. The fires became more pronounced as the dusk approached, and before the British rangers had reached the shore near the creek, Americans as far north as Fishkill knew something was up.

  But it was one thing to know an attack was underway, and another to meet it effectively. Twice this spring, the area around Peekskill had been attacked by well-coordinated raiding parties. While there were now more American troops and a new overall commander here, the general result was much the same. The mobility of the British force and the disposition of the American camps meant the shoreline was practically conceded to the attackers. The inland village itself was protected, but when the marines and rangers touched shore not a single bullet crossed their path. The Dependence and her round-bottom hull floated directly south of St. Anthony's Nose, in roughly the area she had been the day before when Jake observed the feint from the hillside. She switched her target from the houses on shore to the gun works eastward at Fort Independence at the head of the Peeks Kill Creek — though perhaps it inflates the post's strength to capitalize its name.

  Van Clynne and the Connecticut men did a good job keeping up with Jake, and in fact were no more than a few rods behind him as he approached the riverbank near Lent's Cove. But the enemy army had been ashore for nea
rly a quarter hour by then — a fact announced to Jake by two small balls of lead sailing just above his head.

  He dove off his horse to the ground just ahead of a more concerted volley. The Connecticut troops followed suit, van Clynne's curses ringing in their ears.

  Jake's brain realized he was too late. Not only would Busch already have a head start but he now had to fight his way past a considerable force of rangers and British marines. But it was his heart that motivated him, pushing him through the bushes and the rapidly darkening woods, telling him he must not give up no matter what the circumstances.

  -Chapter Forty-

  Wherein, the British marines are met with a sharp counterattack, while the navy is serenaded.

  The troops who were firing at Jake were marines, members of a small party who had stayed close to the shoreline to prevent a flanking maneuver. They were tough soldiers, well trained and battle hardened, but even they could not see very far in the darkening woods. They held a makeshift line in the trees just down from the road, inland from the cove. Jake reckoned there were at most a dozen of them.

  He pushed through the brambles as quietly as possible, hoping to sneak to the riverside and find a boat. In an instant, he had given up hope of taking his troops with him; there was simply no time to waste, and the unflappable patriot was prepared to fight Busch single-handed if necessary.

  Jake snuck south twenty yards before turning back to the east, and was in sight of the river when he came under fire from a picket behind a rock across a narrow ravine. He just barely found cover beneath a tree trunk as a shot parted the leaves above him. Now a second picket took up the cause, and a third; the patriot spy was pinned beneath the cross fire. He crawled forward a few inches on his belly, but then could go no further; even in the looming darkness he would be an easy target on the barren ground that ran down to a small rivulet feeding the nearby creek. The rain was still light but steady, and his face as well as his clothes were smeared with reddish brown mud.