The Iron Chain (18 page)

"How much?" Jake asked, wondering to himself if his pocket pistol was still hidden in his vest.

The man leered without answering. He reached for Jake's hands and sawed through the braided rope as easily as if it were a woman's mending thread.

"I'll take your boots in payment, for starters," said the ham-handed brute. "We can work the rest out as we go."

No blow on the head, no matter how severe, could have made Jake acquiesce to such bullying. He saw that he had a large audience, and recognized at once that all were awed by the Tory giant. They would sooner plunge into a volcano than help Jake.

"These boots will never fit," he answered. "You're a bit fat in all the wrong places, beginning with your head."

The brute gave him a quizzical look in response, not quite sure that he'd been insulted until one or two of the bravest men in the church let their stifled guffaws escape. His lungs began pumping like a pair of hot bellows, forcing his chest larger. His shoulders puffed up as well, and his face turned so red it seemed to glow in the dim light of the church.

"You'll do as I say, or you'll suffer the consequences."

"Where did you ever learn such a big word?" Jake took a half-step backwards, preparing himself.

"I will teach you!" shouted the villain, slashing at Jake. He cut only the air — the patriot spy had dodged backwards. The brute swiped again and Jake retreated once more, this time falling against some members of the audience who promptly tossed him back toward his tormentor.

Jake dove into a somersault, bringing his foot up to kick the giant in the chest and knocking him backwards. Rolling back over to his feet, the patriot launched another kick but missed; he fell onto his back. The brute dove at him blade first. Jake managed to roll away, sparks glinting from the knife as it scraped into the slate floor. A sharp punch staggered his attacker and sent his weapon to the ground, but the man was built like Goliath and quickly recovered. He managed to catch Jake's boot as he aimed a flying kick at him and hurled the American spy back into one of the onlookers.

Jake had no time to thank him for breaking his fall. The bully grabbed him up with both hands and hurled him again in the opposite direction. Once again a Tory was fortuitously placed, but Jake realized he could not count on such luck a third straight time. He pretended to be stunned until the villain reached down for him in a rage. Then Jake leaped with all his might into the man's chest, knocking him over. Two sharp kicks to the brute's groin ended the fight.

It also initiated wild applause from the onlookers. The man, whose name was Charles Wedget, had tormented them for days, lording it over each of the twenty-odd men here and taking their possessions. Each now took his own kick at him, spitting on the prone body and laughing at its agony. Wedget was quickly tied with the remains of the ropes that he had cut away not only from Jake but his other victims. His fetters increased the animosity toward him, as it could now be vented without fear of rebuttal.

Once he caught his breath, Jake stepped forward to stop the slaughter, saying it was not fair that an injured man be attacked by so many. That argument proved of little deterrence, and it was only when Jake suggested the guards would hear the commotion and investigate that the men began to lower their voices, if not the strength of their blows.

"I'm glad you're alive," lied Jake, clapping him on the shoulder. "We're to be rescued tomorrow. Captain Busch has already planned it."

"Word has reached us," said Caleb. "One of the boys who brings us food is the son of a friend to our cause."

"I wonder," said Jake, picking up Wedget's knife and tucking it into his belt. "Is there a man named Johnson here?"

Caleb shushed him. "All of these men are loyal, but under duress, I doubt most could be trusted. Do not reveal yourself to them; say nothing you would want reported to the rebel courts." In a lower voice, he added, "Johnson missed our rendezvous and I fear he must be dead."

Now the celebration flew into high fury — the paraphernalia in the corner was indeed a still, built with the tacit approval of their jailers. The men had used a good portion of their rations to brew a repulsive-smelling swill so potent that Jake began to feel dizzy the moment a cup was poured for him. He was given the honor of the first sip, and reacted by coughing violently, much to the amusement of the other prisoners.

They, apparently, were well used to the stuff, and proceeded to drink it as easily as if it were pure stream water. Within half an hour the entire lot of them, Caleb included, were falling down drunk. Even Jake, who took nothing after the sip he spit out, felt the inebriating effect of the spirits.

Watching quietly from the corner as his fellow inmates passed out one by one, Jake began to feel great sympathy for the man who had started out to fix a rotted floorboard in his house and ended by constructing a brand new structure. Not quite twenty-four hours before, he had decided to forfeit a few hours of sleep to best some Tory rangers; he'd ended up discovering a major British plot against the key defense on the Hudson, then worked his way deep into it as much by accident as design. He was now a prisoner of his own cunning: none of the jailers would believe his story, and while John Jay certainly would — he and Jay had met twice before the war — the judge wasn't due for many days, by which time not only would the chain have been attacked but Schuyler would undoubtedly have concluded Jake's mission to fool Howe had failed. The general would have no choice but go ahead with his plans to abandon Albany and cede upper New York to the enemy, essentially surrendering the middle of the country to the king.

Which all in all might not be a bad idea, if Jake didn't find some way of stopping the Tories from destroying the chain.

_{-Chapter Twenty-}

Wherein, Claus van Clynne discovers a cure for the
common cold.

T
he effects of
their homemade concoction were devastating — inside an hour the prisoners had melted into haphazard piles on the ground, as dead to the world as if run through with bayonets. Jake resolved to find the man responsible for the formula, and put him to work for the patriot cause.

Tomorrow. For now, he had things to do.

The plan was simple — sneak out, double back down the road to the point where van Clynne was waiting two miles away, tell the squire everything he knew of the scheme against the chain, and then come back and rejoin the sleeping prisoners. "Rescued" with them in the morning, he would be united with Busch just in time to sabotage his plans personally. That would still leave Jake three whole days to return to Albany with his message for Schuyler.

Jake's Dutch companion knew of a cosmic law to the effect that the simpler a plan sounds in outline, the more difficult it is to execute. Fortunately, van Clynne was not there to spread this particular wet blanket, and Jake was free to concentrate on the first leg of his plan with as much optimism as could be mustered in a room full of snoring drunks. He rose quietly, and made some movements he meant as decoys; finding no reaction, he walked to one of the piss buckets and relieved himself, taking a circuitous route back with still no sign that anyone else was awake. When a short burst of "Yankee Doodle" failed to raise a reaction, he decided it was time to leave.

How to go? The boards on the side windows were secured with enough nails to lay ten good-sized floors. The choir window, on the other hand, had been left open, and provided an inviting avenue of egress, except for the barricaded doorway to the loft.

Even standing on two buckets, the six-foot-two patriot couldn't quite reach the choir's bottom beam. Jake jumped, but his fingertips just barely grazed the wood before he fell back down to the ground. A second jump ended with similar results, except that he began to feel a little tenderness in his knee.

Two attempts launched with a running start got him closer, but it wasn't until he placed a discarded board from the corner on the buckets as a kind of reverse diving plank that he managed to grab hold of the thick piece of wood running along the bottom of the loft.

Jake rocked himself back and forth, building momentum for a swing over the four-foot railing. He had to let go of one hand to get enough of his body over; when he did so, he hung for a moment, his weight imperfectly balanced between his leg and his right arm.

Had the light been any better, he surely would have fallen, for he could have seen how precarious his position was. But there are certain times when it is best to operate in the dark, or at least semidarkness, and this was definitely one of them. After a breath to renew his strength, Jake pulled himself up and over the choir; he rolled as if a log clearing an obstruction.

And clanged his back on the organ chair, while simultaneously pricking his abdomen with Wedget's knife, which was tucked into his belt. How he managed to stifle a foul curse at that moment remains one of the great mysteries of this tale.

Having attained the choir and assured himself that his wounds were only temporary if painful annoyances, Jake confronted a new problem. The window was devoid of glass, and passage through it could be accomplished as easily as one might walk through an open doorway — except that in so doing, one would fall twenty feet, directly into the lap of a sleeping sentry.

Not for the first time in his life, Jake wished for wings.

He looked upward from the window, hoping to find the roof within grasping distance. It was, had his arms been fifty feet long. Nor were the branches of nearby trees any closer. But further examination presented him with another escape route — the facade itself.

Any reader who ever has an option in this regard should choose to be shut up in a church built of stone or brick, instead of one made of wood. Wooden churches can be made to look considerably more fetching, but their sides do not present many hand- or footholds, making it difficult to climb down from second-story windows.

Which is what Jake now proceeded to do. We will not increase the suspense by telling you precisely how many times he slipped, nor mention that the sentry stirred momentarily just as he stepped out the window. It is probably of only passing interest that Jake's hands became unbearably sweaty about halfway down. But perhaps it is not completely irrelevant that his waistcoat snagged on the clapboard edging when he was but seven or eight feet from the ground, just at the moment he was pushing off the facade to jump and run for the woods.

Jake swung around crazily, caught at the middle and dangling over the ground, hanging by the barest thread in a pose more than a little reminiscent of Icarus's the second before he crashed to earth.

He nearly yelled aloud, cursing the splinter that had caught him, and asking that God himself look down and free him.

No one enjoys being left hanging, especially when it is by one's vest some feet off the ground. But how much less enjoyable is it to be suddenly freed from that position? And so one must always be careful what one wishes for — as Jake discovered in the next moment when the well-worn threads of his waistcoat gave way.

The sentry posted at the front of the church was representative of the many green recruits who made up Putnam's army. Most were brave and patriotic lads, ready to make the greatest sacrifice possible in the name of Freedom. But sacrifice on the battlefield was one thing, and discipline behind the lines quite another. The fact that he was sleeping on duty was, sad to say, typical not only in his unit but much of the service. The only thing unique about it was that he had chosen to sleep in so conspicuous a place.

And a fortuitous one, as far as Jake was concerned. For his tumble took him right into the poor man. If not nearly so cushy as a featherbed, he nevertheless broke his fall. Jake's foot struck the poor man on the side of the temple; his sleep deepened several degrees, but except for a change in the tone of his snores, there was no sign he noticed.

Jake didn't bother to ask. Quickly looking around and seeing that there were no other guards in sight, he leapt up and made a dash for the woods. Undoubtedly the other two or three militiamen who would have been posted to guard duty had chosen better places to hide while dozing — in this instance, dereliction of duty was of great service to the Cause.

We will leave Jake hurrying through the countryside while we check briefly on the man whom he is racing to meet, Claus van Clynne, The reader will recall that the Dutchman was last seen being hoisted to his feet by Major Dr. Keen's driver, Phillip Percival. In the interval, he was guided into Keen's coach at gunpoint and driven away in the opposite direction of the troop he'd led to intercept Jake.