by Jim DeFelice
Destiny had delivered him to his opponent.
Though it actually struck the side of St. Anthony's mountain, the lightning seemed so close that Busch involuntarily ducked. He caught himself, and with a cry as severe as the archangel will use at the end of the world he gripped the grappling hook with both hands and hurled it forward. Rage renewed his strength, and the forged metal and its rope sailed beyond the barrier and its rafts; with two quick pulls he caught the back of one of the floats and began hauling himself forward.
The canoe twisted with the current; Busch put his feet against the side and tugged at the rope, letting the back of the craft become the front but still moving toward his target. With every pull he gave a loud groan and cursed the rebels, swearing that tonight King George would have his victory sealed.
The chain was no more than three feet away when suddenly the hook slipped and Busch fell back against the bottom of the boat. His head rebounded off the deck with an agonizing smash. His senses returned in the next instant as he was yanked to the side of the canoe — the iron had slipped from the log and grappled on the chain itself, and as he had twisted the rope around his hands, he was literally being pulled out, the canoe trying to run with the river's flow.
He nearly broke his elbow against the side of the boat, but managed to stop himself; then swinging his feet around for leverage he managed two great heaves and crashed onto the deck of the sunken chain support.
In that moment, the energy drained from the storm. The rain softened to a fine mist. Though the lightning continued, the flashes were now confined to the clouds above, the thunder rolling up into the northern hills.
Busch secured his rope against the canoe gunwale and then reached down and touched the iron links. They were cold, as cold as the snow from the worst day of winter, and somehow brittle against his hand. In that moment he felt the great triumph of his victory; the rebel defense was pitifully inadequate compared to the great force the bomb in his canoe promised.
The device that would set off the charge was as ingenious as the canoe itself. The spark would be provided by a flintlock encased in a glass jar for protection against the hard elements; it had been tested successfully in a downpour twice as heavy as this. Loaded by a large, wound spring, the sort of mechanism the Swiss have perfected for their watches, it was set by a large brass rod inserted in a pitch-covered wooden box. The rod's hole was keyed; only the specially designed brass wand could be reinserted to defuse the weapon. Once removed, Busch had only ten minutes to reach safety.
The plan had been for him to board the other canoe and paddle off to safety. But with the sailor busy with the rebels, Busch was on his own — he would run along the floats as quickly as possible, counting the time to himself. With luck, he would reach the shore, or at least be close to it, when the bomb went off.
Without luck, he would die where his sister had so many years ago.
There was a fitting irony in this; Busch paused ever so briefly to consider it, then stood and pulled the long pin from the bomb.
Jake flew at him as he did.
He landed across Busch's back. Both men tumbled forward onto the sunken raft next to the canoe, their heads and bodies smashing against the heaving blocks and metal of the barrier.
Busch crawled away, forcing himself to the next float, dragging Jake with him. The patriot had the advantage; he had taken his enemy by surprise, was on top of him and stronger besides. But Busch had already removed the brass pin and started the timing device; without it, Jake could not prevent the canoe from exploding and destroying the chain.
As Jake got to his knees and grabbed his arms behind him, Busch pitched the rod. It landed on the float only a few feet away, teetering on the edge but remaining on the wood. Busch cursed himself, then sprawled forward as Jake grabbed at his waist. The two men struggled against one another, reaching for the rod, the patriot realizing from Busch's struggles that it must key the explosives' trigger.
Busch grabbed the metal, but as he tried to slip it over into the Hudson, Jake caught the other end. Busch wrenched his elbow back and flung himself forward, curling around the metal as if he were a kitten attacking a fallen piece of wool. He managed to slip it out of Jake's grasp; in the next second, he let it fall into the depths of the river.
Instantly, something in the side of his neck cracked under the weight of Jake's fist.
He smiled nonetheless.
"I've set the bomb already, traitor," he said. "It will go off in seconds. Your rebellion is doomed."
Jake threw a second punch and let go of the Tory, stumbling backwards toward the canoe. Tied firmly to the chain, the vessel heaved with the waves that wrapped themselves around his thighs. Jake struggled to reach it, walking, swimming, with no thought of how he was moving.
As his fingers touched the gunwale, he felt a hand grip his shoulder and pull him back; Busch had recovered enough strength to try and stop him. Jake shoved him back like a small dog. The Tory draped himself on his side, but Jake ignored him, crawling into the boat arms first.
As his hand found the wooden floor, his side suddenly warmed. Then he felt a scrape against his rib — Busch had a knife in his hand.
Jake only just managed to duck away from a swipe at his neck. He fell back against the black bomb works as Busch steadied himself to deliver another blow.
"Your death warrant is already signed," said Busch, slashing the air in front of Jake's chest.
Jake held his breath as he fell to the rear of the craft. The darkness and the injury to his eye made it nearly impossible to see Busch, let alone his knife, even though he must be no more than six feet away.
"You're a brave man," Jake said. His voice was sincere, though his intention was to get a response — anything—to help him find his enemy. "I was being honest when I said you belonged on our side, not the king's."
"I won't listen to your treachery anymore," shouted Busch, lunging at him.
Jake pulled himself to the side but was unable to escape the knife, which plunged deep into the flesh just above his hip. At least there was no longer a question of where Busch was — Jake grabbed his arm and wrenched it back across his body. The Tory let go of the blade and twisted back, kicking at the same time. As the pair wrestled, the canoe rocked wildly, threatening to drop them both overboard.
Busch, with his smaller, slippery body, was able to spin around and grab Jake in a headlock. Within seconds, the patriot spy felt his throat beginning to close, compressed between his enemy's arms.
None of his blows against Busch seemed to have any effect. Pulling with his left hand against Busch's lower arm, he poked and punched with his right, trying his elbow as well as his fist.
Jake could feel his lungs crying for air. Powerless to stop choking, he felt his right hand fall limp at his side —
Against the knife, still lodged deep in his hip. As if he suddenly had been given a new supply of energy, Jake pulled it up and flailed backwards, sending the blade through Busch's cheek and instantly freeing himself. Even as his lungs gasped thankfully, he rammed the knife three times into Busch's chest.
A dim spark of far-off lightning framed the Tory's face with the last blow. Dark sadness mixed with surprise as Busch's eyes grew glassy. In the next moment he coughed blood, the fight over.
Even in that second, Jake felt genuine regret that this soul had been lost to the enemy. But it did not stop him from dropping the limp body to the floor of the canoe. He took the knife and looked down at his own hip, awash in blood.
It would have given his mother quite a fright to see him now, he thought.
Odd, to think of his long-dead mother at a moment like this. Her image flickered in his brain as he dropped to his knees along the side of the boat, fishing for the rope that bound it to the chain.
At every second, he expected to be immolated in a resounding blast. It may have been three seconds before his wrist struck something wet and warm; it may have been three hours. By the time his brain realized it was the rope, his f
ingers were already sawing the knife through it.
Suddenly he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He looked up in amazement. The only thought that seemed plausible was that he had died, and was being welcomed to heaven by his long-dead mother.
But Jake Gibbs hadn't died — not yet, anyway. The rope had merely given way, and the current snatched the canoe with such force it was as if a dozen teamsters had grabbed hold of the boat and pushed it downstream. The tap he felt was the lash of the rope; when it brushed by him he was already flying into the water.
-Chapter Forty-four-
Wherein, rocks fill the air and other signs announcing the approach of the Apocalypse are seen.
Claus van Clynne and his adopted band of Connecticut regulars had not been idle during Jake's heroic battle on the river. Indeed, the soldiers and their general — if we may stretch the term a little longer — had found themselves hard-pressed by the retreating Tory raiding force. The storm warmed van Clynne's heart if not his clothes, as he understood the disturbance to be the product of certain former members of Henry Hudson's crew, but this old story was too long and complicated to be explained to his men under the circumstances. Nonetheless, he rallied them with every encouragement possible as the combined company of rangers and marines fell against the American interlopers in their rear.
At first the British forces unloaded their weapons with great relish, whether they had a target in sight or not. Their enthusiasm at the chance to spill some enemy blood kept them operating more as individuals than as a massed group, which was fortunate. For so it is in warfare, that overweening energy can be as great a detriment as an asset; as long as the red- and greencoats stayed isolated in ones and twos and did not mass for a charge, the Americans caught between them and the shore were comparatively safe. Their officers soon realized the problem, and began trying to organize them into two brigades for a frontal assault, where their bayonets and not their weather-fouled guns would be the important weapons.
The galley Dependence, meanwhile, had realized something was amiss on shore. She came up with her cannons and swivels loaded, ready to provide whatever support her ground forces required. The captain gave one good flash of an 18-pounder — a heavy cannon under the circumstances, but a mere child's weapon compared to the vessel's main armament — to alert her troops that she was prepared to assist. The ball sailed a good distance over everyone's heads, landing with a thud in the hills.
Having completed some of his most successful business dealings in the dark of the night, van Clynne realized it would be difficult from the water to tell who was friend and who was foe. He therefore endeavored to convince the Dependence that her troops were those nearest the shore — a not unnatural assumption, since that was where she had originally left them. And so he answered the cannon shot with his own pistol, and called out, with his best British accent, that the Americans had overwhelmed the advance guard and were about to overtake them.
One hears many tongues and accents in the Americas; there is French and its many varieties, Dutch and German, various African languages, a multitude of Indian dialects. English itself comes in a cornucopia of styles and slants; it is not difficult to tell a Rhode Islander from a Virginian, nor would someone from Boston be confused with a Jamestown resident, once his mouth was open.
The Dutchman's shout from the shore had an accent all its own. Though it was based on what he imagined a British marine would sound like, in truth, he had not had so much experience with these fellows that he could easily mimic the voice. His own Dutch accent was strong besides; overall, the tone was quite peculiar, if not overly pleasing.
Fortunately, the mate aboard the Dependence who heard it took it for Welsh. More importantly, he interpreted van Clynne's words — "We are here, and the rabble is a hundred yards further inland." — as perfectly as if they were the king's own English. The Dependence immediately began firing its heavy weapons into the supposed rebels, breaking up the marine and Tory charge.
Another man might have thought this a pretty good night's work, and been content to lie low while the balls shot overhead. But the squire was just warming to the battle. Besides, his dislike of the water extended to everything upon it, and this galley and her monstrous gun were a tempting target.
Or would have been, had they anything to bombard her with. The impudent British, unaware that they were firing at their own men, proceeded right up to the shore, launching ball after ball. A youth with a slingshot could pick them off with his rocks.
Van Clynne grabbed one of his soldiers just as he leveled a musket in the galley's direction.
"I have a much better idea," said the Dutchman, glancing upward at the rocky edge of the nearby hillside. "Two of you men stay here and pretend you're part of the British landing party. When you hear our assault begin, run for cover — don't dally."
As van Clynne leads his men to a small but strategic path between the berry bushes up a short but not insignificant promontory south of St. Anthony's Nose, we will take a brief but critical detour of our own, joining Dr. Keen and his kidnapped guide, sweet Jane. They were at this precise moment hurrying in the doctor's coach to Marshad's cottage.
Keen, partly because of intermittent pain from his wounds, had been a perfect gentleman — assuming one makes the natural allowance for the fact that he held Jake's loaded Segallas next to Jane's throat. After permitting her to fetch a cloak, he escorted the girl from the inn to his coach, making a brief detour to borrow a horse from her uncle's stable.
The animal was tied to the rear of the carriage. Jane was then introduced to the coach's sleeping occupant. She reacted with an involuntary gulp — Rose's mother lived a short distance away from Jane's uncle, and the two girls had often played together before Rose was sent to the Stonemans' to learn the rudiments of caring for a house.
"This will be even easier than I hoped," Keen declared, taking Jane to the driver's bench and tying a long rope to her ankle. He suggested that, should she disobey any of his commands, he would kill not just her but her entire family. From that point on, the doctor sat back and let her drive to the cottage, brooding in silence while working out the details for her lover's ambush.
Keen did not know that there was a connection between this young woman and his enemy, else the course of our tale might be far different. Jane, however, had recognized the Segallas as belonging to her lover's assistant — one must forgive her for seeing the world through Claus van Clynne's eyes. She therefore had some confidence that she and Rose soon would be rescued. She was also comforted by the knowledge that the exceedingly sharp paring knife secreted beneath her boned corset would come in handy should her captor get fresh.
As they neared the heavily damaged cottage, the rain began to beat down fiercely. Jane pulled her dark woolen cloak up and hunched inside, as if it were a cave that could keep her dry. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed as impervious to the elements as a beaver.
Keen's coach was equipped with a pair of ingenious candle lanterns constructed with mirrors and metal in such a way that a goodly amount of light shone on their path. When the house was in sight, the doctor stopped the horses and unfastened one of the lanterns from its side post, using it to illuminate the ruins and the surrounding woods. When he was satisfied that there was no one else here, he set the lantern back down and reached into his coat. There he drew a long knife from a scabbard sewn beneath the arm.
Jane saw her life glow in the reflection cast on the blade as Keen moved it slowly toward her. She froze, the connection between her brain and muscles momentarily severed.
"Take the horse at the back of the coach and go to General Putnam," commanded Keen, slicing through the rope at her heel. He smiled, relishing the fear that had flooded into her face with the appearance of the blade. "Tell the general to send the Dutchman, Claus van Clynne, here immediately, or my captive will die."
"Claus van Clynne?"
"He must come alone — if there are any soldiers with him, she will be dispatched before they turn the corner
there," he added, pointing ahead. "And then your family at the inn will die. And after that — yourself. Go. Now!"
Jane flew from the top of the carriage to the horse. Keen watched her leave with much satisfaction. He was not such a simpleton to think that Putnam wouldn't send a troop of soldiers, but the look on her face when he mentioned van Clynne convinced him she knew the Dutchman and would endeavor to send him here.
Keen would have ample surprises for them all.
The hill van Clynne and his men climbed stood over the sheltered bit of water where the Dependence had been maneuvering. The height was not great, but the elevation was more than enough to protect anyone who stood on the top from the awful 32-pound dragon at the mouth of the ship.
"What we need, gentlemen, are stones," declared the Dutchman as he huffed to the crown. "Not huge ones, mind, but ones you can throw readily. You see the ship; that is our target, and it is an easy one at that."
And so it was. The deckhands and gun crews on the British galley, who had already done well to cope with the rain, now found themselves inundated with much heavier material. It was as if God had opened up the sky and forced brimstone down upon them.
Well, not quite. The British quickly realized that the rocks were being thrown by mortals, and rebel mortals at that. But they found this new threat nearly impossible to counter. Only two swivels could be brought to bear, and the darkness made it difficult to see what they were shooting at. Had the Americans been firing muskets, the flashes would have given them away, but the rocks arrived suddenly, crashing on deck — or on a sailor's head — without showing where their authors stood.
The ship's captain was beside himself with anger at this new rebel ploy. He ordered the helmsman to bring the ship about, and yelled at his gun crews to send "the damned rebels back to hell where they belong."