The sun's advance rays were just tickling the horizon as Jake secured the door of the barn where he had tied up the militia guards. He had little time to celebrate and bare seconds to catch his breath. The American spy feared one or two of the Tory prisoners inside the church might fight off the effects of their late-night drinking and notice he was gone.
Deciding to reenter the church through the choir window, Jake took two long pieces of rope from the barn and knotted them together. After listening at the door for any sound inside — none yet — he knotted a large circle in the rope, stood back and threw it up, hoping to hook around one of the wooden staves that stood in the bell tower window above. Two tries and nothing; by the third Jake was working on a story to explain his coming through the front door. On his fifth try, he caught a metal spike in the ledge. He was up the side and in the church so quickly that the parson would have applauded, thinking that only a soul bent on salvation — and enamored with his sermons — could move so quickly.
Jake found the choir loft empty as before. Leaving the rope dangling outside, he crept to the balcony, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior. When he saw the coast was clear he retrieved the rope, coiling it in the corner, then slipped over the choir rail and plummeted to the floor.
This was not a particularly quiet operation, and in fact he cursed aloud, echoing his knee's complaints. He proceeded to walk noisily through the church, carelessly kicking pieces of wood and a man or two lying on the floor. A complete circuit brought him back to the front door, where what began as a cautious knock soon developed into a very loud bang.
While their homemade hooch had rendered the prisoners nearly unconscious, Jake by now was making enough noise to wake the dead. Of course, the dead might have woken with less ill-effect — his pounding echoed and amplified the pounding between their temples, and the first reaction Jake heard behind him was a collection of groans and undisguised threats. "Smith, Smith, what the hell are you doing?" called Caleb Evans, stumbling toward him. "There's no one guarding the front door. Help me." "What do you mean?"
"Come on." Jake stepped back and took a running jab at heavy wooden door, pounding against it with his shoulder. The hinges barely creaked.
Caleb watched in bewilderment as he tried a second time. "Are you sure?"
"Don't you think the guards would be pounding on the other side if they were there?" Jake was so caught up in his role that he was out of breath. He wished he'd had the foresight to remove the strong board placed as a block across the door outside; as it now stood they would need several men rushing against it at once to break it down.
"The boy said the attack would come two hours after dawn," said Caleb, looking up at the soft light filtering into the church from the upper windows. "That's still a long way off."
"I was watching from the loft when the militia guards left," said Jake. "They ran off down the street with their weapons and haven't come back. Who knows what sort of trick Captain Busch is playing on them — we shouldn't wait to see if it fails." Jake took another run at the door, wincing as he rebounded. "Are you going to help me?"
Caleb's brain was still muddled by the effects of the drink. He continually blinked his eyes, as if focusing them could sharpen his thoughts.
"The boy said they would come for us," he said finally. The words were somewhat slurred. "I think we should wait."
"Were we supposed to stay in the jail after we were rescued?' ^ 1 argued Jake. "They've obviously made whatever decoy attack they were planning, and we're supposed to take care of the rest."
By now most of the other men had gotten up from their straw beds and staggered forward. The majority were simple farmers, and while their sympathies were with the king, until their imprisonment they probably would not have considered themselves active combatants. Still, their jailing had hardened their opinions, and they were anxious to escape. Those with families were very concerned for their safety. So Jake did not have to provoke them too hard to get a consensus: there was no time like the present to leave.
The first rush at the door nearly reversed that decision, as the six volunteers were repelled not so much by the wood but the fierce pounding of blood against their brain pans. Fortunately, the barrier had started to give way, and Jake was able to organize a second posse, which split the lower panel in two. He kicked through the wood and was able to upend the wooden bar with his hand; one more bounce against the door with his shoulder and the metal lock snapped free.
He glanced at Caleb, then cautiously stepped through the portal — there was always the possibility the commotion had drawn reinforcements. The street was as empty as a village clerk's office five minutes to supper time. "Let's go!" he shouted from the porch. "Everyone out." "What about Wedget?" asked one of the Tories inside. "What about that bully bastard?" responded another. "I say, leave him to his fate." "We ought to kill him. Damn rebels'll prob'ly set him free."
Once more Caleb and Jake exchanged glances. "I don't think that's wise," said Jake. "I think we should take him along, same as everyone."
But the sentiment was strong against him. Caleb finally shrugged — as the bully was not part of the ranger troop, he did not care to exert himself in his defense.
"Well, come on then." Jake led the group down the street, past the barn and in the direction of the bridge where he had hoped to meet van Clynne last night. He was struck by a sudden fear that he might meet the Dutchman now; the squire had a tendency to involve himself in the worst situation at the least opportune moment.
Jake need not have worried, for van Clynne was hurrying in the opposite direction, determined to show the upstart little girl that his path to Putnam was indeed shorter and faster.
Perhaps the word "hurrying" is not entirely accurate. It could be used to describe the initial stages of his journey, as he prodded his horse along the road, grumbling about the fact that children no longer showed the proper respect for their elders. He shared his theory as to how this had come to happen with his horse; in abbreviated form, it had to do with their parents allowing them to wear shoes at a young age.
The horse, who had worn his own shoes from early colt hood, did not make much comment. Nor did he respond to the Dutchman's requests to avoid hitting the ruts in the road as he traveled. But the animal was only too happy to comply when van Clynne loosened his makeshift rein and let him take a slower pace.
A considerable amount of time had now passed without van Clynne having acquainted himself with food. While one might think that his experiences with Major Dr. Keen had vanquished his appetite for good, the exact opposite was true. In fact, the Dutchman's voracious nature had been stoked beyond its usual capacity by the previous afternoon and evening's activities. The more van Clynne thought about it, the more he concluded that his way of getting to General Putnam's headquarters was so much faster than Rose's that he could easily afford a short respite from the ardors of the journey, and still beat her.
As it happened, he knew of a very accommodating innkeeper who lay a short turn off a minor detour not a quarter of a mile up the lane. With the imagined scent of bacon tickling his nose, he shook his lead and encouraged the horse to pick up his pace.