And with that, the man put his foot on the disguised patriot's back and propelled him inside the open door, to the great amusement of his escorts.
When it had been used for services, the interior of the church had been simple, its most lavish ornamentation a thick red carpet that ran down the center of the austere wooden rows. A small lectern was mounted at one side of the altar, itself made of wood. Now that it had become a jail, its decor was plainer still. The furniture was gone, except for a few pieces gathered in a pile at the side of the interior. The carpet remained in place, dividing the room in two; even in the dim light supplied by some candles in buckets at the side of the room it was still a dark if soiled red, and gave the impression of a tongue resting in a mouth.
The long, narrow windows had been filled by boards that ran nearly to the ceiling. A pump organ, once the pride of the small congregation, still stood in the choir, but the door to this balcony was boarded and nailed shut. Heaps of bare hay were scattered along the walls, each topped with a ragged blanket-beds for the accused. A tumble of basins and pipes — amazingly, they seemed to be some sort of still, and perhaps accounted for the sweet, sick odor — stood at the far end of the altar area.
The church's original congregants had been Loyalists, most of whom fled the neighborhood after the Battle of White Plains. They had now been replaced by a mixture of mild Tories waiting examination, and more difficult men, ruffians and thieves whose allegiance belonged directly to the devil. One of the latter, a large, broad-shouldered fellow with a crooked nose and a strange stench about him, approached Jake menacingly, and said he would cut off his binds for a price.
'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. 'You're damn awful noble,' said a voice from the back shadows. Jake couldn't quite place the familiar voice until he saw its plump owner step forward. 'Caleb Evans,' said Jake. 'We feared you were dead.' 'It would take more rebels than are gathered in the province to kill me,' declared the ranger corporal heartily.
'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.' Jake nodded solemnly. No better actor could have been found on a London stage. 'Will the attack on the chain be called off?' 'You don't know Captain Busch very well,' said Evans. 'Though he talked for an hour about how you saved him.' 'He repaid the favor tonight. Twice.' 'Then how were you captured?' 'We were surprised afterwards. He escaped.' Caleb nodded, and realizing that some of the others were watching, turned his attention to the fallen bully. 'Take that, you bloody bastard,' he said, kicking him. 'You, sir,' said one of the Tory prisoners to Jake. 'What is your name?' 'Jake Smith.' 'We all owe you a debt of gratitude. Come on, share a drink with us.'
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
