an inviting target; the most difficult task was deciding which limb to sever first. The sergeant drew the sword over his shoulder, aiming straight for van Clynne's tongue. 'Perhaps, sir, we can negotiate a cease-fire,' suggested the Dutchman. The smirk on the sergeant's face changed to a grotesque death mask, blood spurting from a gash in his neck.
The rock van Clynne had backed up against was the same outcropping used earlier by a marine as cover against Jake's assault, and the patriot spy had found himself in the vicinity when the Dutchman began his commentary.
Those complaints were now renewed with great vigor, van Clynne concluding that, if the present army and navy were to have fought against the Netherlands for control of New Amsterdam, the lands here would still be Dutch and there would be no need for the Revolution.
'Think of it this way,' suggested Jake, cleaning off his thin assassin's blade. 'If you were alive then, you'd be dead.'
'That is a most slippery form of logic, sir,' declared van Clynne. 'I believe it pure sophistry, and denounced specifically by St. Thomas. A live man cannot be dead, especially if he is Dutch.'
'You're welcome,' said Jake sarcastically.
'I was indeed about to thank you,' said van Clynne. 'You saved me a certain amount of exertion, though I would have defeated the heathen dog in due course.' 'By talking him to death?' 'I would have thought by now, my friend, that you understood the brilliant subtlety of Dutch battle tactics.' Their conference was interrupted by Private Martin's arrival.
'All present and accounted for, sir,' declared the private. 'We've a few nicks and bruises, but no bullet holes.'
The main British force had marched further inland and was fighting in the hilly area above, between the village and the creek, where it had met militia and Putnam's regulars. They were undoubtedly so preoccupied that an assault from their rear would wipe them out, but Jake had other priorities.
'Which way to our friend Green's?' he asked van Clynne.
'I believe that is his abode yonder,' said van Clynne, pointing toward the settlement on the riverbank. 'There should be a boat or two in the yard. If you knock on his door — '
'No time,' said Jake. 'Martin and I will find a boat. You take the soldiers and continue north across the creek. Advance up the shoreline as quickly as possible. Send a man to Fort Independence and tell them to direct snipers to the chain.'
'Begging your pardon, sir,' asked Martin, 'but if the Dependence is on the river, won't we have a difficult time in our boat?'
'I wouldn't be surprised.'
For a stretch of land under violent attack, the shoreline was remarkably peaceful. In truth, the few local inhabitants had wisely fled for their lives. With the British marines vanquished, Jake and Private Martin had their pick of the vessels beached along the cove.
Their pick of one, that is, which was perched precariously on a group of rocks overlooking the water. It was the only craft in sight, if one excepts the British whale-boats, which were too large for them to maneuver successfully, and the equally impractical galley well offshore.
As it happened, they would have chosen the boat even among a million others. For the craft in question was a birch bark canoe.
Were there more time to praise the construction of this genre of vessel, several pages could be filled regarding the sturdiness of the hull and the effectiveness of the very lightweight structure, which made the boat highly maneuverable. Jake lifted it without Martin's help and launched it immediately into the river, where the doughty private quickly joined him. The two men pushed their paddles into the water and the craft seemed to jump beneath them, hurrying northward as if its Indian maker had bestowed a supernatural spirit within its ribs.
The weak fires ashore, hampered by the drizzle, were now the only source of illumination. Behind them to the west, fierce Bear Mountain growled in the wet darkness, throwing fits and shadows across the channel as they broke into the open water.
A brilliant red and yellow flash lit the river above them, and the waves reverberated with the sound of the Dependence's 32-pound cannon unleashing an awesome missile. The round iron ball groaned and whistled as it rent the air, and for a moment even Jake feared that the cannon had been fired at them. The dull thud of the projectile crashing harmlessly against rock and mud was not so much a reprieve as a warning; they had a long way to go before fulfilling their mission.
Fortunately, the British vessel seemed to be concentrating on Fort Independence and was busy maneuvering at the mouth of the creek below it, seeking to draw as much attention as possible. The current and the rising wind made it difficult for the galley to stay in position to fire.
It also made it extremely difficult for Jake and Private Martin to paddle upstream, as the rain now started to pick at their faces like a swarm of angry bees.
'Pace yourself with long strokes,' Jake instructed his bowman. 'Lean against the left side of the canoe and I'll compensate back here.'
Martin did not answer, but Jake noticed a better pull. He hoped that the heavily laden bomb canoe would find the going several times as difficult.
Their small boat shook with the reflected reverberation of another round from the Dependence. Jake looked up and realized that the vessel was considerably closer to them than he had thought — and in fact was speeding south on a collision course with their canoe. 'Stroke, Martin, stroke!' commanded Jake, going at the water like a grave digger in the last moment before Armageddon. The private responded not only with strong strokes, but with a cheery hum meant to revive his sagging spirits. The song, naturally enough, was 'Yankee Doodle.'
Before Jake could order the private to keep quiet in hopes the enemy might miss them, an alarm rose on the Dependence. As a swivel was manned and aimed in their direction, Jake took up the chorus of the song — and bent hard over the canoe, tucking the boat closer to the rocky shore.
The Dependence, which had been changing position to cover the force that seemed to be under attack at the cove, came on strong. But Jake managed to slip the canoe to the side, escaping the collision and clearing the long arms of the sweeping oars.
'Fire, damn you!' shouted the master of the galley, barely ten yards away. 'Sink that infernal boat and its blasted singing!'
Chapter Forty-one
Jake's guess about the effects of the wind and current on the bomb canoe was correct. Towed behind an ordinary dugout canoe manned by Busch and the sailor he had recruited on the Richmond, its bow was a heavy anchor. The craft kept sliding against its tow rope, trying to change direction; it was a struggle to make any progress at all.
Nonetheless, they kept at it. Busch's determined example rallied the hulking sailor at the rear of the canoe. The man, whom the ranger captain had chosen largely for the size of his shoulders and chest, began now to pay back the faith shown in him. A lull in the wind presented an opening, and they began a steady climb against the passion of the water. The chain, stretched across its wooden logs, lay ahead; at this slow but steady pace, it would take no more than a few minutes to reach.
'Come now,' said Busch aloud to the sailor behind him. 'There's a thousand guineas' reward waiting if we bull the rebels' iron in half.'
'Why didn't you say so earlier!' exclaimed the sailor, redoubling his efforts.
At least one subject of His Majesty King George III did not need any hint of pecuniary reward to fire his energy on this dark night. Major Dr. Harland Keen had all the motivation he needed-indeed, one might say he was over-motivated, with a surfeit of evil energy burning at the core of his twisted soul.
