Have 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 fiance 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.
The doctor faced a minor dilemma, in that the girl had revealed that this Gibbs character was trying to sabotage a British military operation. While his own mission naturally took ultimate priority, he was nonetheless bound to thwart them, especially since the British target was the chain, which he properly understood to be the key rebel defense on the upper Hudson. He would have to alert his fellow countrymen.
There was only one ship on the river this far north that could serve as a command post for such an operation, the HMS Richmond. Keen's best course of action was to find the ship and its commander, inform him of the plot, and continue with his business.
This was not necessarily a detour, he realized; it might very well lead him directly to his two targets. Nonetheless, he was annoyed, for it meant he would have to postpone his dissection of the light sack of flesh he hoisted in front of himself on the horse.
As Keen turned the animal back toward the cottage where his carriage had been left, Rose murmured something. Still in the last throes of the suggestive phase of the drug, she repeated it at Keen's request: "Just let me catch a wink of sleep, darling."
"Oh yes," chuckled the doctor, patting her cheek as he set off. "You'll need your rest."