The Iron Chain

by Jim DeFelice

  "My niece will take care of you," said Prisco, retreating toward a back room.

  The doctor saw his course fully developing; he would take this girl as a guide to the countryside, keeping her for his own pleasure once he had succeeded in luring his nemesis to destruction.

  The second portion of his plan was abandoned as soon as Jane entered the room with a fine leather bottle of wine in her hand. As the reader has already seen sweet Jane described, there is no immediate need to amplify. It will be granted by all — with the natural exception of her true love, Claus van Clynne — that she is not, in any conventional sense, beautiful. Even the word "plain" is stretched somewhat to describe her.

  But her instinct and intellect — now those are handsome indeed. Jane immediately realized that the stranger had some evil design in mind, and so she was on her guard as she approached his table.

  "Thank you, my dear," said Keen, beaming a smile at her. "I wonder — do you know who General Putnam is?"

  Jane looked at him oddly. "I doubt there is a person in the country who doesn't."

  Keen smiled. "And you know where to find him?"

  "At his headquarters, I suppose." She leaned down to pour the wine, deciding that the man before her was a harmless simpleton. But the guest's next question showed her first instincts had been quite correct.

  "I wonder, could you tell me the way to Marshad's cottage?"

  "Martin Marshad?" she asked, endeavoring to keep her voice neutral. "The lawyer?"

  Keen nodded.

  Marshad was a notorious — at least in her mind — Tory and spy; her visitor had just declared himself a perfidious skunk. Jane decided in an instant that she would alert her uncle, who as a member of the Committee of Safety and the local justice of the peace could have him arrested. Something in her manner gave her away; as she poured the wine into Keen's glass, she suddenly felt a cold hand clamp onto her arm.

  "Do not scream, my dear," said the doctor. "I require your services as a guide and as a messenger." He smiled, and nodded with his head toward his left hand, which held Jake Gibbs's Segallas, stolen from Rose. "This weapon has two bullets left, so that after I shoot you, I can kill your uncle without bothering to take a second pistol from my belt. Let us get your cloak; I wouldn't want you to catch your death in this rain."

  -Chapter Forty-two-

  Wherein, the shortcomings of birch as a naval material are briefly but thoroughly surveyed.

  As glorious and adaptable as the birch canoe may be, it was not designed to withstand the grapeshot of a swivel gun, let alone the heavier calibers of cannonball. Jake and Private Martin were well aware of this defect, their joyful chorus of "Yankee Doodle" notwithstanding, and they paddled away from the Dependence with all they were worth. The galley, meanwhile, was engaged in several battles at once — besides the pesky singers passing off its side, the ship was firing at the shore to support its troops and maneuvering desperately to avoid the rocks close to shore. Given the darkness of the night, the confusion, and the wind that began to whip up, it would be but a mild surprise to find that they missed the little canoe entirely.

  Alas, one cannot always count on surprises, mild or otherwise. The second blast from the nearest swivel gun was followed by a light patter somewhat similar to the sound rain makes on shale, assuming the rain is several degrees hotter than boiling and the shale much thinner than paper. The bark of the canoe literally disintegrated in a puff of steam and smoke. Martin fell face first into the water, striking his head with such force that he was knocked senseless. Jake was able to stay upright and hold onto his oar, which provided some comfort if not protection as a wave dashed him into a large and not very soft rock. He clambered onto it, then saw Martin's distress; he dove back into the river just as a sailor aimed the Dependence's swivel at him.

  The bullets ricocheted off the rocks and sent up a pronounced splash, but once more the patriot spy had escaped harm, his impulse to save the soldier proving his own salvation. In two quick strokes he reached Martin and hauled him over his shoulder; Jake found a sandy spot on the shore and pulled him up to safety.

  By now the galley was too concerned with its other problems to waste time bothering with shipwrecked singers. Jake quickly propped the unconscious Martin against a tree, then began racing north along the shoreline, heedless of the sharp rocks and cragged roots beneath his feet. Within a league, the soles of his wet boots were sliced through, his ankles swelling from the severe pounding against the uneven terrain. His lungs were near bursting and his knee was sorely strained.

  How much further he could have gone before collapsing — even Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs must have his limits — will remain an unanswered question, for Providence had decided in her generosity to provide him with a small, open rowboat, a fisherman's craft complete with oars and tackle, placed directly in his path. Jake jumped into the boat with great haste, more sure than ever that God was on the side of the Revolution.

  The Creator undoubtedly is, but if He placed the small boat there, He is not without a sense of humor. For Jake had gotten only a few yards out from shore when he noticed water lapping against his sore ankles; a few more strokes and he realized the water was now to his calves. He put his back into the oars and hauled with all his might, hoping that he might somehow avoid or at least lessen the rush of water if he could move ahead quickly enough. But the river was relentless, and before he had gone a half mile his thighs were nearly submerged. Jake continued to row, but within a few minutes realized that his progress was slowing to a crawl.

  The glow of fires from Fort Montgomery on the west bank illuminated the river ahead like the flickering flames of a stove in an empty house. Fits of yellow light played out like water spirits across the Hudson, and dark, lumpy shadows sat before him, gargoyles guarding the cathedral of Freedom. Except that one of those shadows must be Busch, as determined to reach the chain as Jake was to stop him.

  His boat was no longer of much use, but Jake feared he would have a difficult time swimming against the river, roiling with the growing storm. There seemed no other option, however, for his short pause had allowed the water to lap over the gunwales. He made sure the ruby-hilted assassin's blade was secure in his belt, removed his sodden boots and socks, and tossed off his vest. Throwing one of the oars ahead of him to help as ballast, he dove into the icy cold water.

  The Hudson's current is a varied thing, depending not only on the time of day but the location and perhaps Nature's momentary whimsy. Jake found it suddenly veering in his direction, but that was little consolation. As he looked up from the water, he expected at every second to see a brilliant flash of red: Busch's canoe igniting with the Tory's terrible wrath.

  Jake had not lost hope that Rose had notified Putnam, and at every second prayed patriot patrol boats had been strung like a necklace in front of the chain. For a brief moment he was sure the shadow he was nearing was one. But as he reached for it, the hulk darted back against the shoreline, and he realized it was a trick of the reflected light. The rain was dampening the poor illumination and blurring his eyes, and now the river's strange sounds began crowding into his head, thrusting him into a Hadeslike maze.

  Jake kicked with all his strength, but his energy was nearly gone; he feared he would lose this battle. He let go of the oar, deciding that it was slowing his progress. Stroking ahead, he determined to make one last lunge for the dark line that protected his young country's fate, or drown in the attempt.

  A moment later, he noticed a thick shadow ten feet away that seemed different than the others; while it too moved away and changed shape, it did so slowly. With another stroke, he realized it was a real, solid object, with another ahead, and now he could pick voices out from the chaos — Busch giving orders, the two boats knocking harshly against each other.

  And then he heard the hard creaking of the iron chain against its log supports ahead.

  The slap of the bomb canoe against the hull of his own craft sent Busch's heart to his stomach. While he knew t
hat theoretically the charge could only be activated by the fuse, he did not want to test that theory here. He pushed the vessel off with his hands and found himself straddling the water, his legs still in the lead canoe.

  For a brief moment he felt a twinge of panic, fear shaking his grip. Then he caught hold, and used his arms to bring the bomb canoe close again. As his assistant steadied their craft, the captain climbed aboard and took up the paddle he needed to propel himself the last league to the chain.

  The rain was now sufficient to have soaked entirely through to his skin. But he welcomed the growing storm as an ally, for the more difficult the river, the greater his chance of success.

  While the scene was dim and confusing to Jake's eyes, Captain Busch interpreted the fires on the bank below Fort Montgomery as being considerably brighter tonight than when he scouted the chain, even with the rain. Busch believed a good lookout would have spotted him by now, and undoubtedly alerted the patrols on the shore. Indeed, a whaleboat loaded with soldiers had been dispatched and was hurrying across from the western terminus.

  "There," he said, pointing to a dark froth still protected by the shadows of the cliffs. "That will be one of their patrols coming for us."

  "I'll hold them off, sir."

  "Just draw them away," said Busch. "I only need a minute to reach the chain. The bomb will explode within ten minutes, once the fuse is set."

  "Won't you have trouble with the fuse in the rain?"

  "It's all mechanical," Busch assured him. "Just hold these men off and our success is guaranteed. You can do it; you're worth ten of them."

  Busch didn't hear the response, if there was one. He was already paddling hard. While working the other canoe had been difficult, moving this one was practically impossible, with the immense dead weight of the bomb acting against him.

  It's a few yards, no more, Busch told himself. I must do it, and I shall.

  The British sailor let his canoe drift momentarily with the current, waiting for the whaleboat to approach. Had someone told him the day before that he would sacrifice himself against the rebel rabble, he would have laughed heartily — after punching him in the face. But this ranger captain had somehow filled him with pride, and shown him that the destruction of the chain was not merely his duty, but an enterprise that would rank with Drake's defeat of the Spanish in the Channel. How much greater would the fame be, when two men alone took on the rebels, and broke the Revolution's back in a single night?

  And so the Devonshire native waited grimly for the whaleboat. Though his orders were to lead it away, he was determined to put up enough of a fight that the damn Americans would be close enough to feel the flash of fire from the explosion — a mere taste of the reception that waited the bastards in hell.

  The man's attention was so focused on the boat making its way to his left that he did not hear Jake's breast strokes to his right, nor realize where the true danger lay until Jake's hand was on the side of his canoe. By then, it was too late, for summoning all his strength, the patriot yanked the boat out from under its occupant, sending the seaman tumbling over him into the Hudson.

  The sailor's foot kicked Jake's head as he went over, hitting him in the eye and raising a welt. More importantly, the blow knocked the ruby-hilted knife from Jake's hand, throwing it into the river and leaving Jake without a weapon save his own battered hands and legs.

  The patriot pushed the canoe forward, attempting to board it, but was grabbed around the waist by the Briton, who flailed not only for king and country, but life itself. Like many sailors in His Majesty's navy, the man could barely swim.

  Jake smashed his elbow against the man's face twice but could not loosen his grip. The canoe slipped from his hand and the two men plunged downward into ice cold blackness, their arms and legs tangling against each other like a pair of maddened octopuses, each blinded by the other's ink.

  The suddenness of the plunge made Jake swallow water into his lungs, and his chest began to explode. The sailor's grip tightened as they sank; though Jake kicked upwards with his feet, the man was as heavy as a howitzer, and about as buoyant. Jake reached his hand toward the sailor's face, trying to jab at his eyes or throat, anything that would provoke him into letting go. The patriot's own right eye was swollen shut; while that was not a handicap at the moment, since the left, open, could see nothing in the pitch darkness of the water, it added to a general feeling that bordered on despair. His lungs were now close to bursting, and his limbs were showing the full effects of fatigue.

  Ah Liberty, how swift you are to inspire those in most desperate need of your charms! For how else to explain the suddenness of the idea that knocked on the door of Jake's brain and won ready admission: if you can't get to the surface, sink.

  Sink like a stone, and let the other man's instinct for survival take over. Jake ended all effort to escape, curling his legs together and making his arms go flaccid, as if he had given up the will to live.

  It took the brute, in his panic, a moment to realize what was happening. In the next, he let go of Jake and kicked desperately upward.

  The moment he was freed, Jake coiled himself into a spring and shot to the surface. The air that filled his lungs was as welcome to him as the Greek shore was to Odysseus, and the rain felt like a refreshing warm shower in Circe's cave.

  The sailor also had found the surface of the river and was trying with awkward strokes to reach the canoe.

  Jake got there first. The boat, though it had taken water, had righted itself and sat high enough on the river to block him from the sailor's view. As the Briton reached his arm for the boat, Jake shoved it away, and kicked his leg forward in the water. Though the blow was not severe, it caught the sailor by surprise.

  The spirit Busch had inspired drained with that kick. The man began blubbering and crying that he was going to drown; he prayed for salvation and cursed the king.

  Jake took him by the neck and hauled him to the boat, bending his shoulders over it before climbing aboard himself. Dazed but conscious, the sailor clung to the side, the fight gone out of him forever.

  As Jake fished a pair of oars from the bottom of the craft, he heard a challenge directly to the west — the whaleboat of Americans rowed up belatedly.

  "Take this man," Jake shouted. He slid an oar into the sailor's hands to keep him afloat until they arrived and pushed him off the side. "Then quickly follow me to the chain!"

  The Americans' answer was drowned by an enormous peal of thunder as the sky overhead was illuminated by a vast sword-stroke of light.

  -Chapter Forty-three-

  Wherein, Nature is tested and overcome, leaving only Liberty to fling Herself against her Joe.

  The storm clouds vied in a brilliant show of electricity, clattering against each other like oaken ships determined to batter themselves to oblivion. The rain turned to torrents, falling with the stink of burnt air. But Tory Captain John Busch was so focused on his goal that he noticed none of it. He lifted his heavy arms again and again against the fierce river, driving himself as the ancient Irish hero Cuchulain had against the waves. Despite the weight of the bomb before him, despite the force of the water and the wind that kicked spray in his face, he was able to reach the wooden floats that supported the heavy barrier.

  Busch found the weak point of the barrier he had spotted the previous night. The thick chain lay nearly two feet below the water here, and if it were not for the alterations and the weight of the front of his craft, he would have been able to pass right over it.

  Busch felt the bow of the canoe scrape the top edge of the chain. But he could not ground the canoe on the float as he had initially hoped, and so was forced to fall back to his secondary strategy, tying the bomb boat to a nearby raft.

  To do this, he had to first paddle the canoe parallel to a log and hold it there while he grappled with a stiff rope and hook. The river's current turned violently against him, pushing him away while the rain spit in his face. Busch made his first try with one hand on the oar, tryin
g to hold himself in place; the toss was pathetically short.

  By now his arms were so weak he could hardly lift them to pull the rope back in. The river sent him too far away for a second try without more paddling. He moved nearly to the tip of the raft before trying and missing again.

  The hard flashes of lightning threw distorted shadows to harass and confuse his aim. It was as if all the elements had conspired to stop the Tory, Nature herself taking a hand in saving the Revolution.

  "You will not beat me," he shouted when his third toss failed. "I will succeed."

  As Busch was battling the will of the elements, Jake struggled with the canoe he had taken from the British sailor. Dug out from an old pine tree, it was too long for one man to handle easily in the river at night, especially in a thunderstorm. The patriot's eye had not reopened, and his arms and legs were badly bruised from the sailor's battering. His lungs wheezed with the river water he had swallowed. The wind blew straight into his face, and the thunder punched at his temples like the sharp blows of angry boys.

  When he realized he was moving southwards away from the chain instead of north, he despaired of reaching the barrier in time. He dug into the water harder with the oar and changed direction, worried he would be caught in the explosion and die a useless martyr's death.

  Jake had no compunction against giving his life in the name of his Cause, but he wanted it to be a worthwhile sacrifice. And so Death himself drove him onwards, the hoary specter swinging his scythe with abandon at his back, his hot, relentless breath warming Jake's spine.

  A particularly wide burst of lightning sparked its jagged insignia but a few yards ahead, and in the short instant of illumination, Jake saw a figure stand in a misshapen canoe not more than ten yards ahead.