The two men sat without speaking, the sounds from the far shore drifting over with the wind. Jake heard the guards grumbling curses about the food and weak tea. Where was the rum, one man asked.
"My mother threw herself off the rocks six months later," said Busch quietly. "My father has been twisted ever since. It's a pitiful story, isn't it, Smith? A cursed man and a cursed family."
As strongly as he reminded himself that the man sitting near him was an enemy engaged on a mission aimed at the heart of his country, Jake could not help but feel a pang of pity and even regret. There must be some way of converting this tortured and yet worthy soul to the Cause of Freedom, screamed Jake's heart. His head answered firmly that no such chance could be taken. Soon, the circumstances would demand that Busch be killed, or if not killed, arrested, which would amount to the same thing — any patriot court would surely hang him.
He should be killed here, now; it would be a mercy.
"Come on," said Busch, moving toward him, "we must be getting back. Our mission here is complete."
The Tory captain touched Jake's shoulder, unaware of the argument raging inside him. Jake looked up and caught the reflection of friendship in his eyes, and that as much as anything decided him — if he did not act now, he might never do so. But as he was about to toss the Tory over the side of the raft, he realized he did not yet know when or how the attack would be launched, and just as the Tories had gone on without Johnson, they would undoubtedly go on without Busch.
Whether the argument would have held him back under other circumstances, it did so now; Jake silently followed Busch toward shore.
The night had grown even colder, and the patriot felt his teeth starting to chatter. A good bottle of rum would be most welcome now, or even some of his friend van Clynne's favorite ale.
The rafts rocked more violently the closer they got to shore. Now the dark shadows that loomed ahead assumed eerie shapes of children and women, long arms grabbing out toward them, hair floating in the murky water. Jake stumbled on the wet wood, and for a moment felt the cold grip of the night plunge its icy fingers inside his chest and grab at his heart.
He lost his balance and fell forward into the water, his head crashing against the stone like hardness of the barrier. He struggled, but in the darkness he slipped beneath the logs, and now found his way to the surface barred. In the dark water he saw the faces of the men he had watched die: his friend Captain Thomas, Lieutenant Colmbs, Horace Brown, and a host of nameless fellow patriots and countless British swam in the river, their souls seeking the shore. He already had swallowed two mouthfuls of water when he felt a sudden force take him and thrust him sideways, as if God himself had intervened to save him and preserve the Cause.
Not God, but Busch. The Tory hauled him to the surface and then paddled on his back to the shore, dragging Jake behind like a helpless child.
"Thank you," the American spy managed after he had finally cleared the water from his lungs.
"Now you owe me a life," said Busch cheerfully. "Come, we've made a bit more noise than we ought to have."
They walked back along the shoreline to their clothes and boots without waiting for their breeches to dry. The path they had taken down was too treacherous to climb up in the dark; Busch took his pistols and prodded Jake to follow him as he walked northward.
The action of the tides here had produced a small ledge of sand along the waterside, punctuated by large boulders and debris. The way was not easy, and Jake worried that it would take so long he would miss his rendezvous with van Clynne. He wondered also if Putnam had increased the defenses, though he realized that the diversions and the geography would conspire to leave any simple multiplication of forces impotent against the Tory designs. Indeed, if the attack were launched from this direction, an entire army could be waiting south of the chain, with about as much value as a barnful of milkless cows.
"This will bring us out near the road, and we will have to sneak back through my father's orchard to get to the horse," Busch said when they finally left the shoreline. "It is in full view of the house, but he will be sleeping by now. In any event, he is much less fearsome without his dogs. Perhaps I should have killed them years ago."
Jake had hardly taken two steps before he sank in mud well over his ankle. If Busch was following a path through this swamp, he failed to see it, yet the Tory captain made quick progress, turning and stopping every few minutes to let Jake catch up.
"It's only a bit more through this," said Busch. "Then we have solid ground and a hill."
"Are we bringing the forces through this swamp when we attack tomorrow?" asked Jake.
"No, the attack will be on the water," confided Busch. "Only a small force will go against the chain itself; our rangers and the marines will land near Peekskill as a diversion. I will explain it all, in good time. Let's go."
Jake now had all the information he needed about the Tory plan, and no excuse not to kill Busch. But how could he murder a man who only minutes before had saved him from drowning?
Jake followed along quietly until he caught his foot in the muck and fell face first into the swamp. He was by now so cold his joints felt frozen solid. "I hope we will have some device that allows us to see in the dark when we attack tomorrow night," he said, righting himself.
"You are starting to sound like a complainer, Smith," said Busch. "What happened to the brave man I found at the tavern?"
"He got cold and hungry, and a good deal wet."
"We'll be by a fire soon enough," said Busch. "If we cannot find a hospitable inn, we've only to return to Stoneman's."
Finally they reached dry ground. The Tory captain started up the steep incline like an African monkey. Jake made better progress here, and found that the quick pace warmed him. They soon reached a lane, and began walking south once more.
"This path leads to the road in front of the house. The roadway is just around that turn," said Busch, whose steps started to slow.
"Do you ever think of confronting your father, and asking his forgiveness?"
"I have, many times," said Busch. "He does not seem to recognize me. Something in his head has broken, and he would as soon shoot as say a word. He has tried to shoot me, in fact."
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than they heard noises ahead. Busch put up his hand and motioned Jake toward the trees at the side of the roadway. They waited in the darkness for a moment, then began slowly creeping forward.
Jake now wanted an opportunity to leave Busch without arousing his suspicions; he planned to go to his rendezvous with van Clynne, then return to Stoneman's and sabotage the plans as a member of the troop. The noises were just the thing — Busch's father must have come out to avenge his dogs' death. But Busch's father wasn't waiting for them around the bend. Claus van Clynne and a detachment of Rhode Islanders were. "There they are, men! Capture the Tory traitors so we can wrap them in tissue for General Putnam!" "I see one!" "Watch, there's a whole brigade of them behind!" "Halt or we fire! Halt, I say!"
The reader undoubtedly will credit Claus van Clynne with great mental powers of prognostication for his ability to scope the precise point where Jake and his Tory captain would emerge from their spying jaunt. The Dutchman would do his best to encourage this, though the true story of his fortuitous arrival at this juncture of our story is less flattering. For Colonel Angell had grown tired of van Clynne's endless diatribe regarding the conduct of the war, and had sought to get him out of his wigged hair by assigning him and a squad of men to the spot along the river he felt least likely to be attacked. In fact, the colonel might have had some hope that old man Busch — well known to the patriot commanders, if only from a distance — might be provoked into taking several shots at the Dutchman. Not that Angell wished him any real harm, but van Clynne provoked in him that double reaction he so often had on people — on the one hand, his service to the Cause of Freedom was indispensable and undeniable, and on the other hand, he had a way about him so annoying even the mildest of Jesus’ apostles might be tempted toward murder.
The soldiers who had accompanied van Clynne to the area seized the opportunity to attack the shadowy figures ahead at least partly because they had grown tired of the Dutchman's lecture on the possibilities of screw-fitted breech-loading rifles. Thus their attack was premature, and both Busch and Jake were able to duck back safely into the woods, escaping their ill-aimed fire.
Unaware that van Clynne was nearby, Jake ran next to Busch when the firing started, but gradually began to drop back. A bullet whizzed dangerously close to him in the underbrush, and he dove to his right, getting an armful of prickle weeds as his reward.
"Smith?"
"I'm all right," he hissed at Busch, rising to his feet.
"This way," said the Tory captain. "Go straight over the hill. I'll wait for you there if we get separated. Forget about the horse. I know where there are others."
Jake continued to stumble forward, letting Busch increase his lead. The fire from the Continentals — who surely could not see well enough to aim, except at the noise — was remarkably hot and dangerously close. He wanted to make his feigned escape attempt look convincing, but not so convincing that he was wounded, and so Jake found it necessary to run further into the woods than he otherwise would have wished.
At length, he realized he had lost Busch. But as there was no way of knowing whether the captain was hiding in the shadows just a few feet away, he had to arrange his capture carefully. He continued to move in the general direction the Tory had indicated, meandering as if lost. The troops, meanwhile, had brought up torches and spread out to search the woods. A throb from his knee, which had been injured a few days before, suggested a perfect plan — he would complain about the knee loudly when found, in case Busch should overhear.
If Jake was unaware of van Clynne's presence, the Dutchman was equally ignorant of his quarry's identity. He had been left alone by the roadside, without even a flint to light the wood gathered for a fire, when his troop first ran to investigate the noises in the woods.
"Probably just a raccoon," grumbled the Dutchman to the darkness. But when it became clear that his men weren't returning, he decided to set out after them. He was quite surprised when he found the company — or one member, at least — almost immediately, walking straight into the soldier and knocking him to the ground.
Or would have, except that the man was bigger even than van Clynne, and so it was the Dutchman who found himself floundering in the dust, propelled there not merely by the surprise of having walked into the man but by a sharp blow as well. "You idiot, I'm on your side," said the Dutchman. "Help me up. Come on, be quick about it." "Do as he says, Phillip. After all, it would be too easy to kill him here." The voice had a sickeningly familiar ring to it, instantly recognized by van Clynne. It belonged to Major Dr. Keen.