weather-fouled guns would be the important weapons.
The galley Dependence, meanwhile, had realized something was amiss on shore. She came up with her cannons and swivels loaded, ready to provide whatever support her ground forces required. The captain gave one good flash of an 18-pounder — a heavy cannon under the circumstances, but a mere child's weapon compared to the vessel's main armament — to alert her troops that she was prepared to assist. The ball sailed a good distance over everyone's heads, landing with a thud in the hills.
Having completed some of his most successful business dealings in the dark of the night, van Clynne realized it would be difficult from the water to tell who was friend and who was foe. He therefore endeavored to convince the Dependence that her troops were those nearest the shore — a not unnatural assumption, since that was where she had originally left them. And so he answered the cannon shot with his own pistol, and called out, with his best British accent, that the Americans had overwhelmed the advance guard and were about to overtake them.
One hears many tongues and accents in the Americas; there is French and its many varieties, Dutch and German, various African languages, a multitude of Indian dialects. English itself comes in a cornucopia of styles and slants; it is not difficult to tell a Rhode Islander from a Virginian, nor would someone from Boston be confused with a Jamestown resident, once his mouth was open.
The Dutchman's shout from the shore had an accent all its own. Though it was based on what he imagined a British marine would sound like, in truth, he had not had so much experience with these fellows that he could easily mimic the voice. His own Dutch accent was strong besides; overall, the tone was quite peculiar, if not overly pleasing.
Fortunately, the mate aboard the Dependence who heard it took it for Welsh. More importantly, he interpreted van Clynne's words — 'We are here, and the rabble is a hundred yards further inland.' — as perfectly as if they were the king's own English. The Dependence immediately began firing its heavy weapons into the supposed rebels, breaking up the marine and Tory charge.
Another man might have thought this a pretty good night's work, and been content to lie low while the balls shot overhead. But the squire was just warming to the battle. Besides, his dislike of the water extended to everything upon it, and this galley and her monstrous gun were a tempting target.
Or would have been, had they anything to bombard her with. The impudent British, unaware that they were firing at their own men, proceeded right up to the shore, launching ball after ball. A youth with a slingshot could pick them off with his rocks.
Van Clynne grabbed one of his soldiers just as he leveled a musket in the galley's direction.
'I have a much better idea,' said the Dutchman, glancing upward at the rocky edge of the nearby hillside. 'Two of you men stay here and pretend you're part of the British landing party. When you hear our assault begin, run for cover — don't dally.'
As van Clynne leads his men to a small but strategic path between the berry bushes up a short but not insignificant promontory south of St. Anthony's Nose, we will take a brief but critical detour of our own, joining Dr. Keen and his kidnapped guide, sweet Jane. They were at this precise moment hurrying in the doctor's coach to Marshad's cottage.
Keen, partly because of intermittent pain from his wounds, had been a perfect gentleman — assuming one makes the natural allowance for the fact that he held Jake's loaded Segallas next to Jane's throat. After permitting her to fetch a cloak, he escorted the girl from the inn to his coach, making a brief detour to borrow a horse from her uncle's stable.
The animal was tied to the rear of the carriage. Jane was then introduced to the coach's sleeping occupant. She reacted with an involuntary gulp — Rose's mother lived a short distance away from Jane's uncle, and the two girls had often played together before Rose was sent to the Stonemans' to learn the rudiments of caring for a house.
'This will be even easier than I hoped,' Keen declared, taking Jane to the driver's bench and tying a long rope to her ankle. He suggested that, should she disobey any of his commands, he would kill not just her but her entire family. From that point on, the doctor sat back and let her drive to the cottage, brooding in silence while working out the details for her lover's ambush.
Keen did not know that there was a connection between this young woman and his enemy, else the course of our tale might be far different. Jane, however, had recognized the Segallas as belonging to her lover's assistant — one must forgive her for seeing the world through Claus van Clynne's eyes. She therefore had some confidence that she and Rose soon would be rescued. She was also comforted by the knowledge that the exceedingly sharp paring knife secreted beneath her boned corset would come in handy should her captor get fresh.
As they neared the heavily damaged cottage, the rain began to beat down fiercely. Jane pulled her dark woolen cloak up and hunched inside, as if it were a cave that could keep her dry. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed as impervious to the elements as a beaver.
Keen's coach was equipped with a pair of ingenious candle lanterns constructed with mirrors and metal in such a way that a goodly amount of light shone on their path. When the house was in sight, the doctor stopped the horses and unfastened one of the lanterns from its side post, using it to illuminate the ruins and the surrounding woods. When he was satisfied that there was no one else here, he set the lantern back down and reached into his coat. There he drew a long knife from a scabbard sewn beneath the arm.
Jane saw her life glow in the reflection cast on the blade as Keen moved it slowly toward her. She froze, the connection between her brain and muscles momentarily severed.
'Take the horse at the back of the coach and go to General Putnam,' commanded Keen, slicing through the rope at her heel. He smiled, relishing the fear that had flooded into her face with the appearance of the blade. 'Tell the general to send the Dutchman, Claus van Clynne, here immediately, or my captive will die.'
'Claus van Clynne?'
'He must come alone — if there are any soldiers with him, she will be dispatched before they turn the corner there,' he added, pointing ahead. 'And then your family at the inn will die. And after that — yourself. Go. Now!'
Jane flew from the top of the carriage to the horse. Keen watched her leave with much satisfaction. He was not such a simpleton to think that Putnam wouldn't send a troop of soldiers, but the look on her face when he mentioned van Clynne convinced him she knew the Dutchman and would endeavor to send him here.
Keen would have ample surprises for them all.
The hill van Clynne and his men climbed stood over the sheltered bit of water where the Dependence had been maneuvering. The height was not great, but the elevation was more than enough to protect anyone who stood on the top from the awful 32-pound dragon at the mouth of the ship.
'What we need, gentlemen, are stones,' declared the Dutchman as he huffed to the crown. 'Not huge ones, mind, but ones you can throw readily. You see the ship; that is our target, and it is an easy one at that.'
And so it was. The deckhands and gun crews on the British galley, who had already done well to cope with the rain, now found themselves inundated with much heavier material. It was as if God had opened up the sky and forced brimstone down upon them.
Well, not quite. The British quickly realized that the rocks were being thrown by mortals, and rebel mortals at that. But they found this new threat nearly impossible to counter. Only two swivels could be brought to bear, and the darkness made it difficult to see what they were shooting at. Had the Americans been firing muskets, the flashes would have given them away, but the rocks arrived suddenly, crashing on deck — or on a sailor's head — without showing where their authors stood.
The ship's captain was beside himself with anger at this new rebel ploy. He ordered the helmsman to bring the ship about, and yelled at his gun crews to send 'the damned rebels back to hell where they belong.'
The crew endeavored to comply. But the swirling riptides made it difficult to swing around quickly, and suddenly a loud crash signaled yet another problem — the keel had struck against a submerged sandbar, leaving the Dependence snagged in an even more difficult position than before. The rock throwers quickly realized the ship's plight, and responded with a hurrah — and a fresh round of projectiles.
As their confidence grew, van Clynne's troops steadily increased the caliber of their stones. Lieutenant Clark's curses reached a new fervor as he urged his men to row themselves off the rocks and retreat. The river roiled with fresh and heavy stones, and for a moment it appeared the great British terror of the Hudson was about to meet her doom.
Surely that would have been the case had the troop of American soldiers — two full companies of men, under
