and was rewarded by a satisfying splash, the gunman toppling into his grave. Behind him, the old pirate dove into the water, stroking for the shore behind Alison.
'You will be repaid,' Jake vowed, 'if harm comes to her. I will pull your heart from your body through your nostrils.'
'A fine curse, Colonel Gibbs,' boomed an all-too-familiar voice from the nearby boat. 'But I am afraid you won't live long enough to carry it out.'
'I have been waiting for you to catch up to me for some time now, Keen. I am sorry to inform you that your operation proved unsuccessful.'
'I suppose it depends on your perspective,' answered Keen, his voice as cheerful as Jake's. The two men might have been old college chums discussing the day's laboratory procedures, each lying merrily to the other of his successes. 'In science, there is no such thing as a failed experiment, merely negative results.'
'Always the optimist. Tell me, what did Black Clay think of your failure? Or did you let him think you were dead?'
'I am glad my little ruse fooled you,' said Keen.
'I never thought you were killed in the water.'
'Come now, I'm sure you did. But then, I will admit you surprised me tonight. I was looking for your friend Mister Clynne, and here you show up instead.'
'If you're referring to the Dutchman, I think you will find a 'van' appended to his name. He is rather touchy if you leave it off.'
'Indeed. But then he is cantankerous to a fault, is he not?'
'I count it as his most endearing quality,' said Jake. Alison's strokes were now far in the distance; if nothing else, Jake's banter had succeeded in purchasing her escape.
'It's you I have in front of me, colonel. I fear I will have to deal with you straight away. Your cleverness grows by the hour, it seems.'
'I try to learn something new every day.'
'Then this will be your most elucidating lesson,' declared Keen.
'Much obliged, I'm sure. What lesson are we taking?'
'Ballistics, sir. Ballistics.'
As the two men had been exchanging pleasantries, the hired minions in Keen's longboat had continued to row toward Jake. Their craft moved slowly, and not merely because of the current. The doctor had removed his swivel gun from the bow of his carriage and placed it at the bow of his boat; it was well-suited there, being of a naval design, though it tended to weigh against the craft's progress. Jake slipped his knife into his hand, aiming to wait until the space between the boats was close enough to leap across.
But the British assassin had fought him before, and if he had underestimated him severely at the start of their mutual encounters, he now knew the American's capabilities all too well. He ordered his men to halt while the two boats were still a good way apart.
'This is quite close enough to eliminate my friend,' Keen declared. 'Make ready to fire.'
Jake had sensed from the start that Keen was hesitating to shoot, but could not understand why until he realized that while the light of Manhattan was silhouetting his enemy's boat through the mist, his must be nearly invisible with the much dimmer Brooklyn shore behind him.
In that case, thought Jake, I won't help you find me any more.
As quietly as possible, he sank to his knees, crouching and willing the fog to fall in thick around him. Then he had a second idea, and took, the bottle with the death poison from his pocket. The red liquid it contained was as thick as syrup, and coated the knife blade as strongly as any glue.
Perhaps if he hit Keen, the doctor's men might think him dead. Considering his usual treatment of subordinates, they would undoubtedly greet his demise with some joy, and might even leave off chasing Jake.
And so we see how Hope springs up unrealistically in desperate times. Truly, Jake did not even know which dim shadow across from him was his nemesis.
He would have to get Keen to speak again. But doing that would reveal himself as well.
'I wonder, doctor — you never told me if you attended Edinburgh,' said Jake.
'There he is,' answered Keen. 'Fire the damn gun.'
In the split second it took for Keen's order to be carried out, Jake's knife flew toward the shadow standing midway back in the boat. He dove into the water just ahead of the cannon's crackle.
The patriot spy was not quite fast enough, nor lucky enough, to escape all its bullets.
Chapter Thirty-eight
“ Keen’s dead.”
“ My God, the bastard’s just pricked. The knife only caught his shoulder. How can he be dead?”
“ Shitten hell, see for yourself.”
“ ChristAlmightlyGod! We must be fighting the devil himself.”
“ The rebel bastard’s gone to the bottom, that’s for sure. Boat blew right out of the water.”
“ What to do with Keen?”
“ Take him back, I think.”
'To hell with that. Wrap the anchor around him and drop the bastard overboard.'
'Aye. See how far his threats get him.'
'Deserves a decent burial for all that. He was a Christian.'
'Seen no proof. Didn't he try to cheat us out of our price for the boat?'
'Promised a good reward, though.'
'Got no sight of it. An' he hasn't a cent in his pockets.'
'Throw him overboard then.'
'Maybe the money is lined in his coat. Strip it.'
The voices faded across the water. Jake gripped the piece of smashed keel and gave a silent kick beneath the waves, working his way in the opposite direction.
He had been hit in his leg and his left shoulder, though how badly he could not tell. The pistols in their case hung like a heavy weight from the strap around his neck. The only reason he did not let them drop was that he could not spare the energy to undo the rope.
The patriot spy guessed that the low shadows looming over his right arm must mark the Brooklyn shoreline; barely suppressing his moans, he pushed toward it. The natural action of the tide was sending him up the mouth of the bay. A salty spray of water lapped at his nose and eyes. He felt his body grow heavier and heavier, every inch pressed down by fatigue.
Alison must be somewhere ahead, he thought. It was unlikely she'd made shore yet. She was a strong girl, but Jake remembered the night on the Hudson. She had not been able to make the beach by herself, for all her energy.
He told himself he must push on and rescue her, must find the poor child — the poor woman — before she drowned. He owed it to her father.
He owed it to her.
He pushed on, until suddenly it felt as if Poseidon himself had taken hold of him.
Not Poseidon; this was a smaller and mortal hand grabbing him by the neck.
'Come along, now, sir; don't fight me or we will both drown. The girl is waiting on shore.'
It took Jake a moment to recognize that the voice belonged to the old pirate, and it was another second before instinct told him he must trust the little man and his powerful strokes.
'I knew all the great pirate captains in my youth,' the boatman told Alison, pointing out at the river as if the ships floated there still. 'Aye, gentlemen every one. It is just bad politics that ruined their names. Politics and prejudice; steer clear of them, girl.' 'Jake is waking up.'
