Chapter Twenty-one
After leaving the weaver, Major Dr. Harland Keen headed to the river near Tappan in as foul a mood as any man since Hudson found it necessary to concede his craft drew too much draft to pursue the passage to India up these waters. It was by now well past midnight. Any boat Keen spied would be his for the taking, but he feared some random guard or sentry near the docked ferries might cause complications. So he continued south to an area with less settlement, spotting a large, old flatboat as he drove his wagon over a pine-planked bridge spanning a creek that emptied into the river.
While Dr. Keen was a man on the other side of fifty and had spent much of his life in London besides, he was still in reasonable shape. His physique was aided by certain substances of his own concoction which he imbibed from time to time. He took one of these now — a small pill whose major ingredient was distilled from a member of the nightshade family,
— before climbing down from his carriage to inspect the craft.
This was nothing more than a serviceable vessel, of the type commonly used by farmers to carry wagons across the river. Several years had passed since its paint began chipping off, but otherwise the boat appeared sound and relatively solid; ropes were conveniently tied to cleats at the bottom where the wheels of a vehicle could be secured.
A house sat on a small rise a hundred yards away, with a grouping of farm buildings just beyond. Keen briefly considered going there and impressing the inhabitants in the manner of the navy. But free labor was hardly worth the risks or the delay, and besides, the pill was already starting to have its effect. He took off his coat and vest, laying them carefully inside the coach. Rolling up his sleeves, he went to the horses and carefully led them onto the vessel, pulling their heads firmly despite their brief nickers of protest. He sliced the ropes holding the boat to shore, picked up the large pole paddle, and was off.
There was a moment, just before he reached the middle of the river, when the tide slipped back. Another man might have thought the luck that had brought him to the craft had now gone against him. But Keen merely pushed his oar harder, and the boat rewarded him with a swift slide toward the opposite shore. A bright moon gave him plenty of light to steer by, and he soon found a landing on the other side of the water.
He would not have paused at a tollhouse had he seen one, nor did he hesitate as he drove his team onto the south road near the river. The land here was called neutral, meaning that both sides claimed it and neither could control it. The doctor's earlier adventures had made it somewhat familiar, and Keen realized that he had only to go a few miles south to find Dobbs Ferry, which was a Tory haven.
A Loyalist militiaman attached to a British guard unit was posted near the road when Keen arrived two hours before dawn. In actual fact, the man was fulfilling his duty with a surfeit of snores; he was stretched out with his head against a pile of wood and his bayonet idling nearby. Keen kicked the musket into the woods with disdain. When this failed to wake the man, he turned his boot to the laggard's ribs.
'I am Major Dr. Harland Keen,' he said over the man's groans. 'Take me to your commander immediately.'
The guard's reaction was to reach for his musket, moving in slow motion as if still dreaming. When his hand failed to discover it, he reached further; finally he rolled over as if flopping in bed. Keen was in no mood for this. He bent and grabbed the sentry's neck, hauling him up with a sharper grasp than a huntsman chastising a young pup.
'I will give you a choice: you will take me to your captain now, or I will take you to your Creator. Which do you prefer?'
'Th-the captain,' stuttered the unfortunate soldier, who received one last kick from Keen's well-crafted shoe as he hurried into action.
His commander proved to be a hardened lifer who had been up and down the command ranks several times, advancing as high as major twice before descending to start again. He did not take kindly to being woken in his bed by his private, but his reaction was somewhat different when Keen plunged the end of his walking stick into his stomach.
'You will rise and find me fresh horses to pull my carriage, and an escort to King's Bridge,' said the doctor. 'You will do so quickly.'
'Who the devil are you?'
'I am Major Dr. Harland Keen, of General Bacon's staff. And if you ask another question, I will answer with the sharp end of my stick, instead of the blunt knob I have in your stomach. Be thankful that I do not have any more explosive powder for its charge, or you would be examining the floorboards through the hole in your middle right now.'
Similar rough treatment of fellow members of His Majesty's service brought the doctor to Manhattan toward four p.m. He learned one piece of good news along the way: Bacon, along with his aides, had gone out to the ships with Howe. Keen was thus afforded a brief opportunity to intercept Gibbs and dispose of him without his knowledge.
But finding the rebel spy in the city could easily prove as difficult as catching him on the road south of New Windsor. Keen was loath to call on the military establishment for direct assistance for several reasons, the most prominent being that General Bacon might inadvertently be informed. Besides, Gibbs wasn't likely to present himself to them for their inspection.
The first time they had tangled, Gibbs had infiltrated a Loyalist ranger group and foiled their plans to destroy the chain blocking the upper Hudson against the fleet. The next time, Gibbs had been meeting with Indians and assorted whites friendly to the king. Keen, who had never had a chance to properly question him on the matter, hypothesized that dealing with Loyalists must be his enemy's specialty. Perhaps in coming to the city of New York he was aiming a direct blow at the men responsible for Loyalist spying throughout the several colonies.
And so, starting with a few hints and prejudices, Keen worked out a sound plan, deciding to call on civilian officials in a position to interest Gibbs. At the very top of his list was Clayton Bauer, whose house being north of the city proper made the late afternoon stop particularly convenient. Keen prepared his face with a slight touch of rouge, lightening his heavy jowl before descending from his carriage and walking up the precisely laid path to the front door.
This solid piece of wood was meant to be most imposing. Carved completely from a chestnut tree several hundred years old and polished with the same care a gemstone would receive, it glowed a garish hue that clashed with the rustic hillside leading down to the river.
Keen curled his lip in contempt, thinking of how easy it was to make a fortune in America, but how difficult to display it properly.
His Colonial host met him in the front parlor with a less than enthusiastic gait, ushering him toward a settee with a perfunctory gesture.
'I hope you are well,' said Bauer with a voice that suggested otherwise.
'And I assume that you have gotten over the Portuguese ailment.'
The unsubtle reminder that Keen had cured Bauer's venereal disease a few months before was all the doctor needed to demonstrate his power over him. Bauer nodded, gave up his pitiful airs, and waved a hand to the servant, dismissing him.
'My sister and brother-in-law are here from England,' said Bauer.
'How pleasant,' answered Keen. 'I have not seen Lord Buckmaster in quite some time. I believe I treated him for an ailment similar to yours some years before he married your sister.'
Bauer's face immediately brightened. In his case, Keen's cure had gotten to the cause of the disease as well as the symptoms, taking care to remove a certain individual who could have complicated his life to a great degree. He wondered whether the same service had been performed for his brother-in-law. In any event, the doctor had
