"Even though the rebels built it," declared Busch from his horse, "it's an ingenious defense. Not even the Romans could have done better."
"Can anything pass?"
"Nothing," said the captain. "Even to try would be suicide, at least while the forts on the opposite shore are manned. But it blocks the rebels as well as us. You have heard of our galley, the
Dependence?"
"There was some talk of it at Stoneman's," said Jake, "but I wouldn't know it from Lord Howe's flagship."
"It was a rebel galley we captured in New York. The ship is able to raid the shores below the chain with impunity, because the rebel sloops cannot come south to stop it."
"The rebels have warships on the river?"
"At least two in Poughkeepsie. But they are blocked by the chain."
In fact, the patriot sloops were held back for other reasons — they were not finished, and they had neither crews nor prospects of attracting them. But Jake did not wish to correct the Tory's mistaken impression.
"Does the chain have any weakness?" he asked instead.
"That's what we're here to find out," Busch confided.
Worried a little that they were about to plunge straight off the cliff, Jake nodded. As Busch continued to scan the water below, Jake asked about the guard, making his voice tremble just slightly.
"The drop from the mountain is so severe here the rebels have not bothered to post guards at the terminal point. If we are careful, no one will see us." Busch looked at the sun, well on its westward slide toward the fading hills where Hudson's crew sleeps in final repose, then swung off his horse. "Come. There isn't much time before sunset."
"I don't mean to be impertinent," said Jake, dismounting, "but how in the world is an attack on Salem going to draw away the guard here?"
"So you're a tactician as well as a scholar?"
"I didn't say I was either," answered Jake as he followed Busch, tying his horse to a nearby tree.
"The raid at Salem is not intended to draw the rebels from here, only the troops that would be used as reinforcements. The shifting of their reserves will add to their confusion and make our task easier. Take your guns and sword," said Busch, lifting a saddlebag over his shoulder and starting through the rocky bramble. "Be careful with your footing."
"I thought you said there would be no guards."
"It's best to be prepared." Busch added more lightly, "Don't worry. The soldiers in the area are a ragtag collection of ne'er-do-wells and malcontents, who will run at their own shadows."
Though the ranger captain severely underestimated the personal bravery of many of the soldiers guarding the Highlands, it is true enough that the Continental and militia defenses of the area were not all to be desired. To adequately protect the Highlands, as well as wage war in the Jerseys and Ticonderoga, garrison Boston and Philadelphia, shadow Howe in New York — the reader can see by the verbiage alone that it would require an army several times what has ever been amassed by even the largest power on earth. And naturally, numbers alone will not suffice, as soldiers are only as good as their ammunition and supplies allow them to be.
As strategically important as the Highlands are, they had until this point in the war received somewhat scant attention. General Washington sought to correct this situation by installing one of his boldest generals, Benedict Arnold, to head the department. Arnold, because of that wounded pride that has been his Achilles’ heel since the first day of the war, refused. Washington then turned to Old Put, the most experienced soldier of the war, to shore up the defenses and bring in reinforcements.
The task is enormous. At the very moment Jake and Captain Busch began picking their way past berry bushes toward the river, Continental units were marching down double-time from New England to help bolster the defenses. The county militias had been called to alert as well. These last are chronically short of men, having great difficulty raising soldiers.
We will not further interrupt the narrative to describe these problems in detail, nor will we pause to dissect such depressing problems as the small pox epidemic that is sapping the army's strength, for Jake and the captain have reached the edge of a promontory affording a perfect view of the forts across the river — and not quite a clear jump down.
"Is there a path," asked Jake, after they had slid a short distance between the thick gray rocks, "or are we catapulting ourselves?"
"We're doing neither. I only want to sketch the general layout of the battlements." Busch disappeared behind a tree branch, sliding down a small gorge.
Jake hurried after him, half falling, half climbing; he found Busch brushing the dirt from his pants on a small, narrow opening that stood like a platform built on the side of the hill. The view north was cut off by a large rock outcropping, which meant most of the chain could not be seen, but west and south were clearly visible. There were masts off in the distance toward New York — the patriot spy wondered if they were British raiders, waiting for word from Busch.
"We will go down via another route," said Busch, finishing the thought he had started before slipping. "I have to scout the area first. Keep guard." The captain reached into his bag and took out some thick artists' pencils and sketch paper, as if he were about to copy the Pieta at St. Peter's. "There were rumors that the rebels intended to place a boom here, but I do not see one. Can you? Are they building it by the shore?"
It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on near the far shore, and Jake would not have said even if he could tell. He posted himself a few feet away, his carbine ready — though if some Continental group approached, he planned to train it on Busch, not the patriots.
An old, misshapen elm jutted from the edge of the promontory like an overgrown bristle on a hairbrush. It was easy to climb, and Jake soon had a crow's nest overlooking the near hillside. The only thing patrolling the woods between here and the water seemed to be some hawks and a squirrel or two.
The smoke of various encampments to the east and south wended its way lazily in the light afternoon haze. Peekskill, where General Putnam's headquarters were, lay too far inland for Jake to see from here. Likewise unseen, Continental Village, with its munitions depot and barracks, was located further east over the mountain and a little south of their backs.
They were sitting in a perfect, hidden pocket, as isolated and peaceful as the Garden of Eden. The serenity was so tempting, Jake felt it would be easy to forget he was in the middle of a life and death mission, whose success could determine the outcome of the Revolution.
But even Paradise was disturbed after the Fall, and Jake was shaken from his complacency if not the tree by the echoes of angry shouts and thick gunfire.
-Chapter Sixteen-
Wherein, the source of the commotion is discovered, and Squire van Clynne is grossly insulted.
J
ake's
first instinct
was to jump from the tree and seek safer cover. But he quickly realized that the loud volley of musket fire was not only directed toward the river, but had originated nearly a mile away. The sharp, loud crack that made it seem so close was merely a trick of the echo produced by the rock-faced hills surrounding the water.
The patriot spy climbed higher, the tree branches leaning over as he craned southward to get a better view. Busch came running up in the meantime, a pistol in each hand. He put one of the guns down and slid the other into his belt, climbing up after Jake.
From the straining elm, the pair could just make out a small battery of men gathered on the shore to the south, reloading for another volley. But what were they aiming at?
The answer came in the form of a thunderous roar similar to what must have been heard when volcanoes devoured ancient Pompeii. This was followed by a loud whistle, which ended in a tremendous thud, accompanied by a shaking so severe Jake thought an ax blade had struck the tree. A cloud of smoke on the river below the hills pointed the way to the source of the disturbance — it was the
Dependence,
the murderous galley Busch and his men counted on so highly.
The boat was a peculiar beast. Though double-masted with triangular lateen sails, it strode through the waves on a caterpillars' set of oars. At her bow sat a thick, immense pipe, which erupted with fire and black smoke
a second time as
Jake watched.
The pipe
was a 32-pound cannon. Those
unversed in the art of sea warfare will perhaps find a
single weapon unimpressive. They should know first that, like land cannon, the rating
of the weapon is rendered by the size of
the shot it
typically fires; a 32-pounder fires
32-pound balls, though it can be loaded with shot and other
particularly nasty devices designed to obliterate masts
,
sails, and limbs. The average
32-pounder weighs perhaps
5,750 pounds, and measures a good ten feet
.
It is
an entire order larger than the 24-pounder, which under the French
Valliere system is
considered the largest practical
caliber for
a land gun. The
Eagle,
the most potent ship in the British
American fleet — and the admiral's flagship — could mount her 32-pounders
only on the
very bottom
of the vessel; the massive ship quite shuddered
when those guns
spoke.
Small
wonder the rangers at Stoneman's had compared the galley to a fire-breathing dragon. St.
George faced easier
foes.
Naturally, the British could not have designed
and built such
a successful and deadly vessel. The
Dependence
— then named
the
Independence
—was captured by
the perfidious
English during their siege
of New York
.
Refitted and manned by British marines as well as
seamen, she roamed the
lower Hudson at will. Just
at this moment, she was raining her shells
in the general
vicinity of Peekskill, much to the consternation of
the
local militiamen.
Even though it
was too
far to
see them
,
the soldiers' affiliation
was obvious
.
They yelled and cursed aloud and
fired volley
after useless volley, never in
unison, wasting their
valuable powder
and shot.
"Excellent," said Busch
in a
hushed whisper. "We're right on schedule. Major Johnson could not
meet us, but
his portion of the plan
has been
put into effect
."
"Do you think
he was captured like the corporal?"
"
Most
likely he'll be waiting for us aboard the
Rich
mond,
"
said Busch
.
"You probably helped him escape."
"I'm glad
,"
said Jake, who would have
been happier still had he been able to "help" Johnson before he'd arranged the operation.
The battle proceeded as if a staged play. The militiamen stopped shooting, finally realizing that their bullets weren't even reaching the river, let alone their target — or perhaps they ran out of powder. The battery at Fort Independence and several across the river had about the same effect. The
Dependence,
meanwhile, continued to give birth to a series of earth-shaking eruptions. The sounds of disarray and retreat echoed throughout the valley.
"They're going ashore!" yelled Busch, descending a few feet in the tree and then jumping to the ground. "Let's go, Smith; we've no time to lose."
We will let Jake and his Tory captain climb down from their trees as we travel several miles eastward, where we left the good squire Claus van Clynne attempting to recover from the effects of Major Dr. Keen's drug. The Dutchman has made considerable progress since we were last with him, managing to select the proper direction to return to the Loaded with Mischief Inn, where his horse was still tied.
He did not make it to the inn, however. Instead, he came upon a company of soldiers under the command of Colonel Israel Angell, members of the same unit whom Jake and the Dutchman had met the day before. The three Rhode Islanders forming the advance guard were more interested in finding food than enemy soldiers, and at first ignored what appeared to be the drunken shouts of a wayward madman. But van Clynne, even in a dazed mental state, is nothing if not persistent — he grabbed one of the young soldiers by the tatter of his worn coat and demanded to be taken immediately to his commander.
"Or there will be hell to pay! Hell to pay, and at a high interest rate!" thundered the Dutchman.
"We'll shoot you if you don't let go of Christian," said one of the privates as the main body of troops drew near.
"Shoot away!" declared van Clynne. "You will be killing as loyal a patriot as the war has ever known, but shoot! Shoot! Go ahead, do your dirty deed. I command it!"
He let go of the soldier and grabbed another's musket by the barrel, pointing it straight at his heart — or more accurately, the thick purse protecting his heart. The poor boy began trembling — he had not yet seen his sixteenth birthday, though he swore to his captain he was over eighteen.
"I do not understand why you feel obliged to cockade your hats so," said van Clynne, addressing the captain after letting go of the gun. "My friend Jake Gibbs likes to do so as well. What is it about those corners that attracts you?"
Christian, the soldier whom van Clynne had first accosted, took advantage of van Clynne's momentary interest in hats to leap on his back, hoping to wrestle him to his knees. Acting purely from reflex, with no harm intended — he made a protracted point of this later — van Clynne flipped the private over into the officer in front of him, sending them both in a tumble.
"Stop now, or we'll shoot," commanded a sergeant.
"Please," said van Clynne. "I only want to be taken to your commander. It is of utmost importance. I have papers, I know the mark of the Secret Service — it is on my companion's money belt, a Masonic symbol. He's lost it now, but I would know it if I saw it. And of course, I am Dutch, which should leave no doubt as to my allegiance. I have lately spent some time fooling the English, and done an excellent job of it — take me to your commander, I say!"