were pushing it rapidly downstream, toward the British and their ships. Alison struggled, but her exhausted body was no match for the strong current. She felt her grip slipping; suddenly, she fell headfirst into the waves. The patriot spy grabbed the back of her shirt and hauled her up over the floating log.
'All right,' he said. 'I suppose I'm stuck with you. Let's not visit any sea rays along the way.'
Alison was too winded to celebrate. Jake kicked hard, pushing the log before him as he aimed toward the dark shadow of Manhattan island.
The Hudson is no simple stream. Like a great lady, she moves back and forth as much according to whim as the edicts of the moon. Between her various eddies and flows, she is constantly changing direction, and often goes three different ways at once. Tonight she was feeling particularly capricious; Jake had no sooner found a suitable spot to aim at on the eastern shore than the Hudson took it into her head to send him back west.
In seconds, Jake found himself floating a mere dozen yards from the British fifth-rater, a frigate-sized warship retired from the line but still a considerable power in these waters. The deck was awash with light, and reflections leapt across the waves, the shadows dancing in a wild, silent procession. He had no choice but to drift; furious kicking might raise all manner of unwanted attention.
Fortunately, the British eyes were drawn to the Jersey shore, where word had just come of a major land battle near a rebel bridge. Rumor had inflated the encounter that had claimed Paul Brown's life; had the wind been different, Jake might have heard whispers of two battalions of rebels encountered, with George Washington himself at their head. Such are the strange fortunes of war; the same skirmish that made an orphan of Alison now allowed them to pass unnoticed by a considerably larger and more dangerous British force.
The Hudson now pushed the two patriots toward the Manhattan shore. Jake felt the current take him as if he were a feather on the wind; the log lifted nearly out of the water, and in a trice they were speeding toward land, within sight of the former Fort Washington just to the north.
The rushing current and riptide threatened a fresh disaster for Jake and Alison. The way before them was filled with large and treacherously sharp rocks, plunging their nasty beaks into the night air like the mouths of the Furies themselves.
'Watch out!' Jake yelled as the log rode forward. Alison slipped to the side, barely saving her arm from the craggy jaws of a boulder. The maneuver took the last of her energy, and in the next second, she fell off the tree trunk.
Jake dove face-first over the log after her. The moonlight was by no means bright enough to illuminate the depths, and he flailed blindly with his hands and feet, trying to feel for the poor girl. His right shin struck so hard against a rock that he involuntarily cursed; this led him to take a huge gulp of water into his lungs, and he fought to the surface coughing.
Her father's dying plea sounded through the sharp rap of the water against the rocks, and as he cleared his chest of water, Jake cursed himself for stopping at the inn, cursed himself still harder for suggesting that the pair guide him to the river.
For a brief moment the torrent around him seemed to cease and the din fall away. Jake heard a faint burble to his right, more animal than human. He dove toward it, catching Alison as she slipped downward for the third time.
He grabbed her under the arm and pulled her to the surface, tossing her limp body into the air with all his strength. Eliciting a hopeful cough for his efforts, he tightened his grip and spun back to face the rocks — and just barely managed to get his free hand before his face as the tide slammed him into a large, moss-covered crag.
The entire world might be coming to an end around him, but Jake could see nothing but black granite, feel nothing but the young girl clamped in his arm. His fingers pounded against the rock as if to hold it off, while the current took his feet and shot them to his right, upsetting his balance. But this proved fortuitous, for they landed against a sandbar, and in the next moment Jake was able to lever himself and Alison into a protected pool of water and get to his knees.
The shoreline proper was still some yards off, but the way now was easy. With his last bit of strength, he hauled Alison over his shoulders and crawled onto dry land, collapsing just as the first rosy fingers of dawn poked through the east.
Chapter Thirteen
Having released his anger in disposing of his guide and driver, Major Dr. Keen mounted his coach and took stock of the situation. Once launched on a mission, a member of the secret department must carry it to completion. In this case, Gibbs's escape was doubly vexing, as the doctor had already sent a dispatch to his master, General Bacon, indicating the spy's demise. Should Bacon learn of the error, he would be well within his rights to punish Keen for his premature optimism.
There was only one punishment meted out to members of the secret department, no matter the offense: death, as untimely and unpleasant as possible.
Keen had not yet received an acknowledgment from Bacon, and so there might be a short opening for him to ransom the situation, assuming he could do so without Bacon finding out.
In any event, there seemed no other option. He whipped his horses southward toward the largest settlements, reasoning that it would be the most likely direction for Jake to travel, as he must by rights have come from the north. Still, the British assassin knew from experience that finding the spy would not be an easy task.
At least, Keen thought to himself, he would no longer have to deal with Gibbs's vexing sidekick, the obnoxiously rotund and endlessly talkative van Clynne.
Thus, when he reached the small village where Jake had eaten and clothed himself, he stopped more to discover the lay of the land than in actual hope of apprehending the patriot spy.
Keen's fancy coach, to say nothing of the fine buckskin breeches and embroidered coat he wore, marked him as a man of wealth. In certain Whig circles, this would immediately arouse suspicions, and so when he climbed down near the public house, the doctor began promulgating a cover story to any who would listen: He was a private citizen appointed to a committee of inspection by Governor Clinton, and was looking for a friend said to be traveling with a Colonel Hamilton.
'And who might that be, sir?' asked the tavern owner when they were introduced.
'A man with blond hair, an inch or two over six foot,' said Keen. He placed his weight on his walking stick, picking the pocket watch from his vest as if concerned about the fact that it was already well past seven p.m.
'Fella like that was in around dinner, midday or so,' said the keeper. 'Said Colonel Hamilton directed him here. Ate like a horse.'
'That would be him,' answered the doctor. 'We were to meet in town, but I was delayed. I wonder where he's gone to?'
The keeper shrugged. 'Seemed in a hurry. Asked after the weaver, if I recall.'
Keen thanked the man, left a shilling on the table, and walked down the weedy, dust-strewn street to the weaver's shop.
Candles were lit in the small building, which was factory, home, and sales floor all in one. The doctor rapped his stick on the side of the old Dutch-style split door before opening it himself and stepping into the large front room. He was greeted by the steady whisking sound of a loom.
The large, wood-framed machine took up nearly a third of the room. Its levers and pedals were being worked with great concentration by Kristen Daley, the daughter whom the weaver had strenuously tried to protect earlier in the day.
The girl was so absorbed in her work that she did not notice her visitor at first. Keen likewise was transfixed, for here was a perfect American beauty, bundled in mobcap and baggy smock, but no less beautiful for these plain coverings. In London, the doctor had been quite a partaker of feminine charms, and if the world might be said to be filled with connoisseurs of female beauty, he could rightly be accorded a place of honor among them.
The doctor doffed his hat — rare was the Colonial who earned this honor — then tapped his stick on the floor, tilting his head at an angle calculated to give off a good perspective on his jaw.
