The Iron Chain (13 page)

The Dutchman also carried representative samples of the currency of every major legitimate nation in Europe and at least half the illegitimate ones in the New World. Indented bills from Maryland, Connecticut warrants, a note from Massachusetts, and leaf-inscribed papers from New Jersey were among the most plentiful. They were numbered where required and appeared authentic, or at least good copies — the quaint “to counterfeit is death” warnings the notes boasted notwithstanding.

There was no counterfeiting the coins in his several purses. Here Spanish doubloons mixed with old British crowns, French money mingled with German, loose wampum lay next to a mysterious coin that looked old enough to be the Biblical widow's mite. If the rotund squire was not a spy then he was a veritable walking bank.

British gentlemen in general were so prejudiced toward their own racial superiority that most would quickly conclude van Clynne must be in their service, for the colonists could never manage to attract, let alone pay, such a man. Major Dr. Keen, however, was remarkably free of prejudices and blinding opinions. His entire nature rested on firm philosophical principles; he believed one must not jump to conclusions not directly supported by empirical evidence. And evidence as to van Clynne's loyalties, the knife aside, was lacking.

His snores were not, however. As a young man, Keen had spent some time traveling in the Levant, gaining ancient knowledge. He had witnessed a particular practice among Syrian tribesmen involving the butchering of a live bull ox. The animal's wails were remarkably similar to van Clynne's, except that the Dutchman's were louder. The carriage shook with every inhalation, and the crushed velvet curtains at the sides flew fiercely apart every time he exhaled.

Keen flicked the two assassins' blades back and forth as he contemplated the situation. The most expedient thing to do was to kill the Dutchman and be done with him. Another dose of the truth powder ought to prove fatal, despite van Clynne's strange resistance to it; Keen could always claim it was an accident if it was subsequently discovered that the Dutchman was indeed a legitimate member of the Secret Department. On the other hand, this might deprive His Majesty of an effective if unusual agent.

Two, actually. Bacon's hint notwithstanding, such an "accident" very likely would be deemed unforgivable if discovered.

Besides, there was no art involved in killing a man who was already sleeping; a thief or coward could do that, and Major Dr. Keen was neither.

If this Dutchman did prove an imposter, he would be a fitting subject for several experiments Keen had long hoped to perform. The fact that all would undoubtedly prove fatal was unfortunate; it meant he'd only be able to perform one or, at best, two. In the meantime, a way must be found to discover his allegiance.

The ringed jewels on Keen's hand sparkled as he reached up and pulled the silk string near the coach door. The string rang a small bell near Percival on the driver's bench, and they immediately stopped.

"Help me with him," said the doctor as he got out. The two men had a difficult time retrieving the rotund Dutchman from his resting place and ended up half dragging him to the woods, where they tied him to a tree.

The only effect the ropes had on van Clynne was to make him snore louder. Keen wondered if one of those famous American moose might think this a mating call and come for an inspection.

"We'll let him untie the knots and escape, then follow along and see what he does," said Keen. "Sooner or later, his true nature will come clear. Since he still has the knife, he has not yet discharged his duty."

"How long will he be like this, Major?" asked Percival. The driver was well used to the sounds of torture, but these wails twisted his large, ox like face through fearsome contortions.

"Ordinarily the drug wears off in six hours, but I've never seen it follow this specific course," said Keen, returning van Clynne's ruby-hilted blade to his coat. "Take a few coins from his purse to make him think it was a robbery. The big purse that's so obvious. Drop a few and he'll conclude we were startled away when he wakes."

Which proved to be the case when van Clynne came to barely twenty minutes later.

"Came to" perhaps does not correctly describe his mental state. He did come to something, but it was more like a dazed drunkenness. His inability to focus and the slurring of his thoughts into one another alarmed him in no small degree, though it must be noted that the realization he was missing money from one of his several purses sobered him considerably. Van Clynne immediately began cursing the downtrodden times; as his wits slowly regrouped, he realized that his hands were just loose enough to reach into the back of his belt where he kept a finger-sized razor.

"Rascals didn't even take the time to tie proper knots," complained the Dutchman as he undid himself. "And left coins on the ground. Does no one know the proper way to rob a man anymore? They leave after rifling only one purse, and the most obvious one at that. In the days of Stuyvesant, a man was left penniless when he was robbed. Those were halcyon days, to be sure."

The grumbling picked up steam and within a short time the Dutchman's verbal apparatus had returned to normal. His vision, however, remained somewhat corrupted, and the communication between his head and feet had been scrambled to such a degree that he found it difficult to proceed. He stumbled from the tree, flopped into the dust, and spent a good ten minutes floundering on the ground. Regaining a vertical position, he steadied himself on a thick tree and took another dive toward the roadway, proceeding with all the stability of a wobbly top.

The Dutchman's unsteady progress was studied through a spyglass from a distance of several hundred leagues by Major Dr. Keen, who had secreted himself and his carriage in the woods off the roadway. The recovery from the drug astounded him; Keen found himself wishing, nay, praying, that the Dutchman would turn out to be a rebel so he could dissect his brain with a clear conscience and see what chemicals it possessed to ward off the belladonna and attendant drugs.

"Be sure to keep our distance," the doctor told Percival as he mounted the carriage to sit alongside him at the front. He reached beneath the seat and removed a large weapon that attached to a metal brace in the middle of the open compartment. With an oversized, ornate stock and a thick barrel, it looked like an antique blunderbuss, but was in fact a newly adopted naval swivel gun. A light canvas container with perforated sides held a collection of grapeshot; the devastating ammunition was quickly loaded, a fresh flint secured in the lock.

"Be a shame to waste this on our friend," the doctor confided to his assistant. "But with some luck we'll run into a rebel patrol."

"We can only hope, sir."

_{-Chapter Fifteen–}

Wherein, Jake catches his first glimpse of the great chain
stretched across the Hudson.

H
ave you killed
many men?"

The question caught Jake so completely by surprise that he fumbled for an answer. "One or two."

"You are a poor liar, Smith, but that is in your favor at least," said Busch, patting his horse's flank as the animal picked its head from the stream. It was now well past midday; except for a brief lunch, this was their first stop since leaving the rest of the troop.

"I recognized that about you the moment I met you. It's at the center of who you are. You're all surface, Smith; you're no more capable of lying than that squirrel on the ground there. Consider it your defining virtue."

"Maybe it's a flaw," said Jake. He fingered his musketoon, its metal furnishings hot from the sun. Busch had his sword in his hand, and both men turned watchfully toward the road every few moments, guarding against attack.

"You proved yourself when you saved my life," said Busch, "but there is a quality about you — I would have trusted you even without such an obvious demonstration."

Jake said nothing.

"Better a brave man incapable of disguising his feelings than a cowardly deceptor," continued the ranger captain, remounting.

The Tory captain prodded his horse back to the road as Jake boarded his own. They rode in hot fury for several miles, once more following an obscure trail that climbed upwards through the hills. Busch seemed to know this territory every bit as well as van Clynne, whose knowledge of farm lanes and city alleyways rivaled a bishop's command of church law. It was necessary that they ride in obscurity as well as with haste; their green coats and bearskin helmets made it clear that they were the enemy, and would give any Continental soldier a free pass to shoot at them. Yet Busch apparently felt it was a matter of honor to show the uniform, and undoubtedly would have anointed Jake honorary coronet and flag carrier if they had a second ensign for their unit.

Jake was thankful that the late Major Johnson had supplied him with such a powerful horse; his own stomach was starting to ache from hunger but the animal seemed to have not a care in the world, gliding through the narrow path with an ease that Pegasus would have envied. The route, climbing steadily upwards, appeared to have been worn from a crevice in the hillside, strewn with massive boulders and flanked by a succession of gnarled trees.

The country they were riding over was among the most beautiful in America. There are some philosophers who hold that Noah's Flood was precipitated by a vast melting of polar ice, which at God's call washed whole civilizations away in its path; if this is so, perhaps that same ice age carved away the canyons of the river, heaving apart the hills much the way the gap in floorboards is widened by freezing water during the winter.

Jake did not realize that they had reached the top of one of those canyon sides until the river appeared below him. The view was so shocking that he felt his breath catch between his ribs, and even his stallion stopped short.

In the first instant, he saw the strong blue ribbon of the Hudson and its frothing surface, the ancient arm of Nature reaching out toward her sister the Atlantic from the north. In the next moment he saw mankind's stubborn expression of power and will, an exertion borne of the proposition that all Americans should be free from tyranny, and a guarantee that Liberty would not be left to wither and die in the New World — the great iron chain that had been stretched across the river.

Let the reader forget everything he knows of chains and rivers. The impression of the scene may be properly formed only after the mind is a complete blank, with distracting preconceptions and mistaken notions banished.

Draw first the muscular body of water, foaming slightly at the edges with the great torrent of water that flows back and forth daily. Then sketch sharp lines of gray and black at the borders, angry boulders and rocks heaped among the bits of green and brown at the water's boundary. Add the taste and light smell of salt, for the river water here mixes with the sea.

Green — there is much green, since the hills are rugged and the population sparse — dominates the edges of the picture. Huge trees — hemlock and chestnut, oak and evergreen — form a tall brotherhood halfway to heaven, interspersed with smaller but sweeter maple, some birch, and the occasional willow.

Fort Independence lies well behind you and to your left; it cannot be seen because of the topography and trees. Two other forts lie across the river. To the left, there is Fort Clinton, which is not so much a fort as a series of earthworks with ambition. To the right across the Popolopen Creek and connected by a barely discernible wooden bridge lies Fort Montgomery. This is more substantial, as befits a place named after the Revolution's first hero, General Robert Montgomery. The general also happens to have been Jake's first mentor, and if one were able to turn back from the sights below and scan Jake's face, the smallest blush and tear might be seen, bare hints of the sad memory of his leader's death. Jake had watched him fall in the dark cliffs below Quebec; the impotence of that moment still rattled his limbs.

Follow the line of the water now, finding the low shoreline just above Fort Montgomery. There is a thick, dotted line drawn diagonally across the river, a large brown ink stain such as one finds on a student's crib sheet for Greek. The mark ebbs upward and downward with the tide. It is thick and muscular but unnatural, and at first glance it appears not to have been made by humans but by some ancient god, Vulcan perhaps, who has decided to upset the order of things.

Closer inspection reveals the line to be marked by sunken tree trunks, hewn into uniform logs. And staring a few seconds more reveals a darkness in the blue waves that links them, a black deeper than the depths, some strength beyond reckoning that can throttle even Vulcan's forge - strengthened arm, holding him in check.

That is the chain. That is the band of iron formed by hundreds of men working for more than a year, around the clock. That is all that stands between the massive British armada even now gathering in New York harbor, and the vulnerable middle country of the American heartland.

You are not fully impressed? Then stare at the banks until you realize that the small specks, the dots tinier than fleas scattered on the banks of the river near the terminal points, are not fleas but men. Wait until the sun's beams ricochet off the river to hit you full force, impressing not themselves but the dark iron barrier into your retina.