Busch rode his horse at a quick pace through the woods despite the high undergrowth and looming rocks, plunging toward a narrow road on the northeastern foot of the mountain. He wove his way downward too carefully for his speed to be the product of mere haste or excitement; Jake, struggling along behind him, realized that Busch knew these mountainous woods better than most men know their own homes. The sun was now steadily sinking, and the slant of the landscape meant the ground before them was in heavy shadow. Nonetheless, the Tory's pace continued to increase until Jake lost sight of him. With only sound to guide them, horse and rider followed blindly, branches and bushes grazing their sides as they rode. Busch was waiting at the edge of the road, his horse barely winded. "We will have to trespass on a farmer's acres to reach the chain," he said. "He'll shoot us if he sees us." "He's a rebel?" asked Jake, who was as thankful as his horse for the rest.
"It has nothing to do with the war. He's quite mad, and has been that way for ten years. This is the safest route, though, since the rebels avoid his land. It's a pitiful hard-scrabble farm, strewn with rocks and lying on a sheltered nick of the hillside. The ground is treacherous, and there are two vicious dogs. Be careful about your horse. Ready?"
"Ready."
"Let's go then," said Busch, and he set off in a gallop down the road. Jake's horse was more comfortable on this comparatively level ground and he caught up with Busch. They rode side by side until they came to a field on the west side of the road. Once more the Tory dug his heels into his horse's flanks, steering the beast toward the low fence to his left. The animal bounded the rails as if they were twigs on the ground. Jake followed, urging his mount to do the same; the pair was soon flying across the dimly lit pasture toward a small orchard that overlooked the river. It was here that Jake heard the farmer's shouts, and then saw from the corner two black streaks heading in their direction.
The reader is no doubt acquainted with Hercules, who during his many labors came face to face with the giant Eurytion and his two-headed dog. The animals chasing Jake and Captain Busch had but one head apiece, yet they were nearly as fierce, snarling and snapping as they ran. They were also extremely fast, and though the two horsemen had the advantage of a head start, the pursuers gained on their winded mounts with every step.
Jake pushed his stallion faster, flattening himself against the animal's neck and urging it onward. His helmet strap broke with the jostling and the wind groped at his head, swirling its tangled fingers through his hair. The horse's body had turned hot beneath him, convulsing with each footfall, nearing the end of its endurance and strength. Jake dove tighter to its neck, trying at once to soothe it and urge it faster. The pair went over a small hedge and into an open field, but still the dogs came on. Their yaps and growls mixed with the pounding of hooves and the rush of air in Jake's ears, as if hell itself were closing behind him.
All at once he felt himself flying forward: one of the dogs had thrown itself at the stallion's legs.
The ground came up before Jake could properly prepare for it; his chin bashed hard and he felt a floating sensation in his brain.
His horse tumbled over in a somersault. It broke both its neck and a leg in the fall, but managed somehow to cling to life, screaming its agony in a wrenching whine.
The dog that had thrown itself at its legs had broken its ribs and gotten its muzzle mashed, but its venom was hardly choked; it raked its front claws on the horse's vulnerable stomach, trying to inflict more damage, unfazed by the injured animal's weak kicks.
The other dog descended on Jake, who had just risen to his knees when the demon barreled into his back. Still dazed, he had just enough sense to fall forward, trying to protect his neck. The dog raked its snout back and forth across his head, looking for an opening. These were not teeth, they were the hot fire of a glass furnace, withering all before them. The fangs slashed at the side of Jake's neck, ripping through the fleshy part of his earlobe; he just managed to duck enough to throw off the dog's aim as it clamped down, so that the animal ended up with his ponytail instead of his throat.
The hound growled as Jake shook himself free momentarily, spinning the black, furious shadow to the ground. In a flash it had rebounded back at him, stronger and more furious than ever, and for a brief second Jake felt the cold, wet sensation in the pit of his stomach he had felt only once before — on the cold cliffs near Quebec, when a redcoat's ball had taken him through the leg and he feared it was his turn to die.
But just as the animal clamped its jaws into Jake's side, a shot exploded next to his ear. The dog let go and Jake rolled backwards and onto his knees, catching his breath and steadying himself, his body still shaking from the fight.
Busch's bullet had gone straight through the animal's head. What had been a ball of fury moments before transformed instantly to a supine ball of fur lying peacefully on the ground.
Because of the ferocity of its attack, Jake would not have been surprised to find that the dog was a vicious hound bred from the wild beasts of deepest Africa. The reality was considerably different; it appeared to be one of the breed used in Scotland and Ireland to help herd sheep, an animal normally well known for its tame attitude toward humans. The warp of tyranny is not limited to human beings; all living things are twisted so strongly by it that they may turn against their own nature.
Jake's horse was writhing in agony on the ground a few yards away. He took the musket from the saddle holster and dispatched it quickly; it was the only way he could repay the animal's fine service. The stallion's murderer lay at its feet, already dead; Jake could not stop himself from smashing its skull with the butt-end of the gun in a burst of mad fury.
"Hurry," said Busch. "The farmer will be on the way with his guns. Take your weapons and jump on."
Jake threw his pistol in the saddle pouch and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed his carbine and sword and picked up the musket from the ground but then realized he couldn't carry everything and still hold on to Busch. Taking the bag and the carbine in one hand, he pulled himself up with the other, clinging to the captain's coat as they rode away.
Busch plunged down the hillside toward a stone wall. He followed that to a wooded path leading to the river. This he rode down a good distance before finally slowing, confident that the farmer was no longer following them.
"At least the bastard has lost his dogs," said Busch. "That's some consolation. Are you all right?"
"We're even now," said Jake. "You've saved my life, and I yours." In the rush of the moment, the American patriot spoke completely from the heart; he could not feel animosity toward the man, though it soon might be his duty to kill him.
"I told you," laughed Busch. "We're brothers beneath the skin."
"I hope the dogs weren't rabid." Jake winced as he felt around his torn earlobe. He was otherwise intact and not permanently harmed.
"The man looked after the animals like they were his children," said Busch. "The beasts were probably healthier than either of us."
"How do you know?"
"The man is my father," replied Busch.
Such a remark would seem to warrant an immediate explanation, but the Tory captain offered none as he guided the horse through the woods. It was clear to Jake that they had circled around the large mountain that guarded the eastern approach to the chain, so that they had landed behind it; they were now heading south toward the terminus.
The path became so narrow and the way so dark that the two men finally dismounted and left the horse tied to a tree. Using a torch was out of the question; the light would have drawn attention from the forts across the river and any Continental units nearby. Given the desolate hillside they were now approaching, even a half-sleeping sentry would realize anything brighter than a firefly was out of place.
"My sister and I walked this path many nights," said Busch, stopping suddenly. "We loved to sneak down to the river when the moon was out and take a midnight swim. My parents would have beaten us to an inch of our lives if they'd found out — that was part of the attraction, I suspect. Here we climb down the rocks. It's steep but it will save us considerable time. Can you handle this?" "Yes." "Leave your carbine. It'll only get in the way. There are no guards at the edge of the chain." "Are you sure?"
"We were above here, see?" Busch pointed in the dark. "It was the first thing I looked for. Besides, a sentry would have a small fire. There's still a bit of light on the river, but the land is dark."
"Perhaps they're waiting for us."
"If they're that clever," said Busch, starting down, "they deserve to capture us. Come on now, be your brave self. You've passed the rough part."
Jake nodded. He was not going down unarmed — he quickly and carefully tucked his uncocked but loaded pistol in his belt at the front of his pants. The Segallas, meanwhile, was secured beneath his shirt; the elk knife lay in its sheath tucked into his boot.
As Busch had boasted earlier, there were no guards on the eastern terminus of the chain because the terrain was so nearly impassable. Certainly the only reason Jake was able to descend to the shoreline a few hundred yards upstream from it was the fact that he had a guide who had been slinking down this way since childhood. Even so, the last hundred feet to the river bank were nearly as frightening as the tumble on the ground under the dog's fangs. The rocks were wet and slimy, covered with spray as well as vegetation. Jake felt his foot give way, and only Busch's strong arms, grabbing Jake as he slid past, saved him.
"Don't fall," whispered Busch. "The rocks at the bottom are as sharp as ax heads."
It seemed beyond belief that children would come this way, but then in innocence everyone is brave.
"It's much easier if you have small hands and feet," said Busch, as if hearing Jake's thoughts. "You can poke them into the crevices. Takes longer, though."
The river was gently tickling the shoreline, eliciting a soft murmur from the rocks. Jake went slower and slower as his guide went faster and faster; the distance widened between them over the last twenty treacherous feet, and the disguised patriot reached bottom a full five minutes after his guide.
Bush was standing at the edge of the water. Just as Jake was about to apologize for taking so long, the captain waved his hand in front of his face and pointed out to the river. It was a moment or two before Jake could make out the shadow three-quarters of the way across.
It was a whaleboat, patrolling the water just north of the chain. The men inside were resting silently.
Busch and Jake stood like statues on the rocks for a minute that seemed like three hours. The night grew immeasurably colder in that time, dampness welling into the air. A fog began to form and the last hint of twilight disappeared. Jake's ears adjusted to the stillness so well he could hear the whispers of the soldiers in the boat, or thought he could; certainly he heard the order, "All right then, back to the fort." The oars slipped into the water and the shadow receded into the larger blackness.
"A last patrol as the sun finally sets," noted Busch. "Just before they light the watch fires, I suspect." He started picking his way along the bank. "That will be easy to time. Hold on to the tail of my coat. Be very careful."
The rocks were slippery, but twisted trees and other brush gave them handholds, and they soon were within a hundred yards of the chain. The logs holding it up creaked continually, moaning under the weight of the iron and complaining of the tide. The chain itself creaked like hinges on a door, except that the sound was multiplied many times; the effect was something like a team of waterwheels might make, if built entirely of iron and made to operate at an excruciatingly slow speed, each squeak and creak amplified by a succession of paper tubes.
The chain links had been finished and placed in the water the previous November. At first, the current proved so strong that they snapped and were pulled downstream. Finally, the engineer for the project, Lieutenant Thomas Machin, realized that with certain slight modifications, the chain would hold if placed on a diagonal from its western terminus, in effect running with the strongest current.
It happened that Jake had met Machin in Boston a few years before; the lieutenant had been among the "Indians" engaged in the famous tea party. Their acquaintanceship was extremely brief, and would not amount to much now — Machin was undoubtedly in a warm bed on the opposite shore, while Jake was starting to shiver with the cold on these rocks.
Busch stopped in front of him, and Jake realized he was studying something on the ground, unrelated to the chain.
"Come on," he said finally, pulling off his coat. "We shall see if the links are of equal strength and look for obstructions. We'll go out on the river."
Before Jake could protest, Captain Busch took off his boots and dove into the river, aiming for the heavy chain and its log support bobbing a few leagues out in the water. He moved quickly, as if afraid to dwell along the shoreline.
Jake would have much preferred to stay there, but saw no way to do so without being branded a coward. It seemed foolhardy to swim out in the darkness and climb aboard a fitful line of wheezing rafts. Yet had he stopped and thought about it, he would have realized he'd done many less rational things in the name of Freedom — Jake quickly stripped to his breeches and shirt, leaving his guns in his boots. Armed only with the knife, which he tucked inside his belt, he got down on his hands and knees and half-stumbled, half-swam off the rocks toward the dark iron backbone of the Americans' river defense.
Three yards out and the water grabbed him with a sudden jolt, hurling him downstream at the obstruction.
"Keep your hands ahead of you," shouted Busch, who'd already reached the chain. "Use your hands on the logs."
Easily said, but as strong as Jake was, he had trouble with the tricky eddy in the frigid water, just managing to get his arms up in front of his body as he hit the raft support about mid-chest. With a loud groan, he pulled himself onto the logs, grateful to get at least part of his body out of the sharp and icy current.
"Imagine the riptides further out," said Busch, standing over him.
"Thanks, but I'll leave that to you."
"Those must be the fire rafts," Busch whispered, pointing across toward Fort Montgomery. The hulking log boats were framed in front of a series of sentry fires the night patrols had just lit to keep themselves warm by the chilly river.
"The fires make it difficult for them to see us," said Busch. "And besides, who would suspect that anyone had snuck out onto the river? We can rest here for a while. Look at how thick this chain is."
"It seems very strong," said Jake, sinking his hand down to feel around the iron. The metal pieces were just under two inches thick, folded into links. "How are we going to break them?"
"We'll manage," said Busch.
Jake thought of several possibilities — an explosive charge, a hammer and chisel, an immense file. Each had its difficulties — but none were impossible.
"At least the boom has not been constructed," said Busch. "Come, there was a float damaged further out a month ago; let's see if it has been repaired."
As Jake followed into the vast hollow between the banks, his thoughts turned to increasing the chain's protection. The farmer's land could be occupied, and some way found to place a guard on the shoreline where they had descended. Instead of sending a rowboat out on a precursory inspection, several small boats would have to be posted on twenty-four-hour guard. A vessel should be stationed in the middle of the river, with lookouts on each side — and sharpshooters, too, so another mission such as this one would prove fatal.
The log rafts were spaced and constructed unevenly, so that even if they had not been shuddering back and forth, moving on them would have been haphazard at best. Nonetheless, Jake soon developed a method of proceeding that was a cross between crawling and swimming, and if it were not for the cold waves — while it was June, this water had originated high in the Catskill mountains weeks if not months before — he might have been tempted to enjoy his foray. The sensation of being nearly naked on the river, without boat or paddle, was like none he had experienced. He began to wonder if mermaids' calls to sailors might not be made out of their innocent bliss, for truly to float atop the water unfettered must seem like an ecstasy one could only wish to share with all around.
Busch had stopped ahead on a raft that had been used as a workman's station. He sat cross-legged with the water lapping at his thighs, as if he were some new species of waterborne Indian chief.
"There's a float just to our right that is missing some logs," he said when Jake arrived. His voice seemed far away.
"Will we attack there?"
If Busch heard Jake's words, he did not acknowledge them. "My sister died at the spot where we entered the water," he answered instead. "That is why my father became a madman."
His voice had a distant quality that made it sound as if he were talking about something he had read, rather than lived.
"We came down here one night when my sister was thirteen. I was twelve. It was a brilliant harvest moon that night, and the water was warm. You would not know it from tonight, but the Hudson is often warm, most warm — you feel as if you are swimming in a bath.
"She slipped, and hit her head on the rocks. Her body came down all the way and fell into the river, but the current was not hard, and it washed up there, near where they have fastened the chain. If it were light we might even see the rock where I found her.
"I called for hours, hoping. When I found her body, I just… held her, hoping she would be alive, that it was a dream, a terrible dream."