The details of what had happened were sketchy at best, and varied depending on the teller. The story gaining the most currency was that no less than three full regiments under General Alexander McDougall had overrun the corps as it slept. The rebels were said to have been beaten off by a determined counterattack, the rangers' only ally the attackers' inherent cowardice. Even so, the barn had been set ablaze, several horses lost, and a sentry killed. In addition, one of the servants seemed to have been carried off as a war prize.
Sergeant Lewis was wearing a bandage that swelled his already large head to twice its normal size. He was in a dismal, cranky mood, and not even the news of the bloodless escape from the rebel jail could cheer him.
A pugnacious sort who wore his ranger beanie far forward on his head when it wasn't injured, Lewis had just the kind of bravery for which Tories are known. While his commander and the British were nearby, he strutted back and forth in his fine boots, tugging at his green jacket with all the pride of an Italian prince. But under the pressure of the night's difficulties, his fine facade had crumbled. He was now a testament to indecision, inclined to wait at the farm for Busch to arrive, even if that took the rest of the war.
"Well, ya made sumthin' of yerself, at least," he said to Jake after hearing the erstwhile ranger's report of the adventure. "Ya might as well see if ya can scrounge up some breakfast. The girl's run off — or was carried away, whichever. We'll be here a while."
Jake realized that Busch's absence would make it considerably easier to sabotage their plot. He also knew that the longer they waited at Stoneman's, the better the odds he would show up. And so he endeavored to encourage the troop to leave for its rendezvous.
A rendezvous had been planned, hadn't it?
"Keep yer shirt on," said Lewis. "I'm the one what knows the plan, not you. It's me that's in charge."
"I don't question that," answered Jake. "But we should leave before the rebels find us."
"Why? We don't have to be aboard the
Richmond
until 3 p.m. Our horses will get us there within an hour."
"Given the problems of yesterday," said Jake, acting as if he had known the plan all along, "I suggest we should leave immediately."
"What do you know of the problems of yesterday?"
"One of the men told me the horses got sick."
"Yes, well, they're better now," said Lewis stubbornly.
"Even so, the rebels will be searching the countryside for us, sir."
The sergeant galumphed, and cast an eye toward Caleb. As corporal, he should have led the breakout from the jail, or at least the march south. Now his authority had been usurped by the uppity Smith. Would the sergeant's post be next?
But Jake was well used to dealing with a man such as Lewis, and proceeded to praise the sergeant for his leadership and rapport with the men. His words sounded so sincere that Lewis was somewhat softened.
"I wonder, Sergeant, why you were not actually placed in charge from the beginning," assayed Jake. "After all, you are considerably closer to the men than Captain Busch. And I don't believe what the others have whispered."
"Tell it to yer bunter, not me," said the sergeant. While the expression implied that Jake should seek the services of a woman whose loose morals would make her believe anything, there was nonetheless a hint of wounded pride in Lewis's face.
"As I said, Sergeant, I didn't believe it."
"Who said it? Who?" Lewis's cheeks screwed up like an angered puffer fish.
"I would not," said Jake, "turn traitor on any fellow in this troop."
Lewis's hand jutted forward as he prepared to demand an answer to his question. But the rush of blood to his head so increased the pain in his wounds that he had to stop and put both hands to his skull, as if it were about to explode.
"Listen, fool," he said after calming somewhat, "when ya've gone through the hells that I've been through, then ya can talk of courage. Anyone can stand up to a salt merchant on the road, or break out of jail."
Sergeant Lewis spit into the dirt and took a step away, debating with himself. Surely the rebels would launch a search for the escaped prisoners, and that could complicate things. He didn't like Jake Smith, but if he ignored him, Smith was exactly the sort of eager beaver fellow who would stir up the others.
It was probably Corporal Evans who had gone around whispering. He was just the type.
Well, the sergeant could deal with both of these bastards in one blow.
"All right, get your horses!" he thundered to his men, his voice trailing off because of the pounding in his brain. "We ride in five minutes—less, if possible. Smith, find yourself a new uniform from the pile there. We have no more helmets.
"You, Caleb — take Smith and round up these citizens and lead them south to New York. Hurry, before the damn rebels or their Skinners make an appearance."
But Jake had no intention of leaving the main column.
"Begging your pardon, Sergeant, but if Captain Busch doesn't show up — "
"I'm in charge now, Smith. I'll not have my orders questioned."
"I merely wanted to point out that I know the layout of the defenses around the chain, which I presume is our target."
"It might be," allowed Lewis, who in fact had only a hazy idea of the shape their mission would take once they reached the
HMS Richmond.
"Then perhaps it would be better if I came with you to the ship, where my knowledge may prove useful."
Smith, the sergeant reluctantly conceded, had a point.
"Caleb, choose another man in his place," he said. "The rest of you, look sharp!"
"Perhaps six or seven men might be better," suggested Jake. "There are many rebels about."
"Don't push it, Smith. If yer gonna have a comment every time I give an order, ya'll soon find yourself swingin' upside down from an oak tree, no matter how important ya are."
Even so, the sergeant did add a few more soldiers to Caleb's force, leaving the ranger complement at a bare two dozen. He boarded his horse — to say "jumped on" would imply more vigor than his bandaged head allowed — and got his troops in motion. A few of the rescued Tories came up to him as he was about to leave and protested that they would prefer to go back to their homes in place of the city.
"Yer homes are as good as burned down now," he told them. "Ya better do as I say and get yourselves south. Come tonight, the rebels will be getting what they deserve, thanks to His Majesty's Navy. And Earl Graycolmb's Doughty Rangers."
-Chapter Twenty-nine-
Wherein, the virtues of the so-called weaker sex are
extolled, far too briefly.
H
ave we yet
paused this narrative long enough to make proper note of the contributions of the female portion of our population to the great cause of Freedom? Have we noted the unparalleled bravery, the sacrifices of the distaff of our society? Or forayed into the differences of women bred unto this New World, bolder than Eve herself, veritable mothers of Liberty?
Alas, if we have not had time to do it until now, we will lose this chance as well. One of those brave women — nay, she is barely a girl — was last seen riding hard in the night, heading northwards for General Putnam's headquarters to alert him and save the country from ruin. Her ride is every bit as important as Paul Revere's, and should she achieve her goal before daybreak, undoubtedly her name will be mentioned in every sentence that praises the Boston silversmith.
Unfortunately, she is not to reach her goal, though this is not due to any failing on her own. She rides her horse as swiftly as possible, and while Squire van Clynne might beg to differ, her route is a good one. But — and here is a serious "but" — she is being pursued by one of the most accomplished members of the British Secret Department, a ruthless man who justifies his personal deprivations with the rubric of philosophic experimentation, indeed, a man whose polished demeanor hides the ferocity of a wounded lion.
Rose McGuiness drove her horse hard once she was free of van Clynne. But the poor animal, stolen from the Tory rangers, had been left in a much weakened state by the poison Jake had fed it the day before. The stallion quickly tired, and within three miles simply stopped in the road, near total collapse.
Rose slipped from its back and patted the animal's heaving side. She realized it would die if pushed any further, but her mission could not afford a long delay. So she caught the ribbons of her bonnet and tied them firmly around her neck, pulled her cloak tight against the rising wind, and set off on foot up the road.
The sun tickled the Connecticut hills to her right, struggling to break through the ever-increasing layer of clouds. Rose aimed to approach the first homestead she came to and persuade the owner to lend her a horse to proceed north on.
She had gone no more than a quarter mile when she heard hoof beats coming up the road behind her. Her first thought was that the fat Dutchman she had rescued finally had realized his mistake, and was now coming to make amends. She put her hands on her hips and continued walking without turning back, smug in the knowledge that her path had proven the correct one.
But the lesson of Pride and its inevitable downfall that Rose had so recently delivered to Major Dr. Keen was now to be visited on her, with great severity. For the person approaching was not van Clynne but Keen himself. The doctor spurred his drug-stimulated horse, the lingering flicker of pain in his rump where Rose's bullet had buried itself an extra incentive. Hunkered down on his horse like an English riding champion — which indeed he had been during his youth — he plucked her from the roadway with no more difficulty than if he'd picked up an injured bird.
Freedom's partisans are not so easily vanquished. Rose punched and kicked at the side of Keen's horse, forcing the doctor to slow the animal and concentrate on his steering. As she felt Keen's pressure lighten, Rose sunk her teeth viciously into his thigh, which had an immediate effect — he dropped her on the road.
The girl was barely able to get her arms out to break her fall as she tumbled against the hard clay and rocks. Spilling in a heap, she righted herself and flew for the woods, losing a shoe and her shawl in the process.
Keen cut her off, pulling the horse around and riding quickly to the edge of the path. Rose turned and darted back and he was before her again, flashing his sardonic smile. The flickering rays of the early light glanced off the rings on his fingers as a golden beam slashed from above and caught her on the neck.
Rose yelped in pain as she fell down on her back, hurt by the blow from Keen's cane. She remembered the Segallas tucked into her sock and reached for it, only to feel the heavy pressure of Keen's shoe on her hand.
The doctor flicked his cane and a long blade of silver shot from the tip like the tongue of a serpent's mouth.
"A very pretty face," he told her. "What a shame if I shall have to cut it severely."
The point of the knife brushed lightly on her cheek, and suddenly Rose felt incredibly warm, as if she'd been placed next to a fire. Indeed, she was convinced that had happened — for her conscious mind fled, and she lapsed back against the ground in dark limbo.
Keen examined the small slice he had made on her cheek before hauling her aboard his horse. It was a superficial wound, though it easily accomplished its purpose — the introduction of a sleeping drug into her blood system. The effects ordinarily would last a full hour, but given his experience with van Clynne, the doctor took no chances now. He threw her over his horse and returned quickly to the animal she had abandoned; the horse's ties served as hard restraints against her wrists and ankles. He then took a small envelope from his satchel, and mixed it with a few drops of a blue liquid contained in a dropper bottle; the doctor had to use a spoon to complete the operation and the mixture was crude and inexact. Nonetheless, he could tell from the scent — a light mixture of chamomile and licorice masking a more medicinal flavor — that the proper reaction had taken place. And the drug had the correct effect: after Rose was forced to swallow, her body suddenly bolted upright, eyes wide open.
Rose was both a bold and strong young woman, a fine example of American breeding. But she was no match for Keen or his formula. Her throat burned with the hot liquid, then she began to feel dizzy.
Keen, standing at her side, began to make suggestions to help the process of the drug along. Though her limbs were clamped with tight straps, he told her she was free. He suggested that her arms had been changed to wings; he could tell by her smile that she believed she had escaped him at last.
"Who is the eagle flying near you?" Keen asked in a level voice, as if he saw the vision he was introducing to her mind. The technique had been taught to him by the African necromancer who gave him the drugs.
"Colonel Gibbs," replied Rose.
"Your lover?"
She shook her head. "My fiancé Robert is working on the chain. Colonel Gibbs is going to protect it. He'll peck the Tories' eyes out. I must fly to General Putnam, and tell him. The fat Dutchman will help. The Tories plan to attack tomorrow night. I — must — go."
Keen let her body collapse back onto the ground as the drug's more useful effects wore off. She could now be expected to sleep for several hours, and would wake with a terrible headache — assuming, of course, that Keen decided to keep her alive until then.