Jim DeFelice - The iroh chain

As they neared the heavily damaged cottage, the rain began to beat down fiercely. Jane pulled her dark woolen cloak up and hunched inside, as if it were a cave that could keep her dry. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed as impervious to the elements as a beaver.

Keen's coach was equipped with a pair of ingenious candle lanterns constructed with mirrors and metal in such a way that a goodly amount of light shone on their path. When the house was in sight, the doctor stopped the horses and unfastened one of the lanterns from its side post, using it to illuminate the ruins and the surrounding woods. When he was satisfied that there was no one else here, he set the lantern back down and reached into his coat. There he drew a long knife from a scabbard sewn beneath the arm.

Jane saw her life glow in the reflection cast on the blade as Keen moved it slowly toward her. She froze, the connection between her brain and muscles momentarily severed.

"Take the horse at the back of the coach and go to General Putnam," commanded Keen, slicing through the rope at her heel. He smiled, relishing the fear that had flooded into her face with the appearance of the blade. "Tell the general to send the Dutchman, Claus van Clynne, here immediately, or my captive will die."

"Claus van Clynne?"

"He must come alone — if there are any soldiers with him, she will be dispatched before they turn the corner there," he added, pointing ahead. "And then your family at the inn will die. And after that — yourself. Go. Now!"

Jane flew from the top of the carriage to the horse. Keen watched her leave with much satisfaction. He was not such a simpleton to think that Putnam wouldn't send a troop of soldiers, but the look on her face when he mentioned van Clynne convinced him she knew the Dutchman and would endeavor to send him here.

Keen would have ample surprises for them all.

The hill van Clynne and his men climbed stood over the sheltered bit of water where the Dependence had been maneuvering. The height was not great, but the elevation was more than enough to protect anyone who stood on the top from the awful 32-pound dragon at the mouth of the ship.

"What we need, gentlemen, are stones," declared the Dutchman as he huffed to the crown. "Not huge ones, mind, but ones you can throw readily. You see the ship; that is our target, and it is an easy one at that."

And so it was. The deckhands and gun crews on the British galley, who had already done well to cope with the rain, now found themselves inundated with much heavier material. It was as if God had opened up the sky and forced brimstone down upon them.

Well, not quite. The British quickly realized that the rocks were being thrown by mortals, and rebel mortals at that. But they found this new threat nearly impossible to counter. Only two swivels could be brought to bear, and the darkness made it difficult to see what they were shooting at. Had the Americans been firing muskets, the flashes would have given them away, but the rocks arrived suddenly, crashing on deck — or on a sailor's head — without showing where their authors stood.

The ship's captain was beside himself with anger at this new rebel ploy. He ordered the helmsman to bring the ship about, and yelled at his gun crews to send "the damned rebels back to hell where they belong."

The crew endeavored to comply. But the swirling riptides made it difficult to swing around quickly, and suddenly a loud crash signaled yet another problem — the keel had struck against a submerged sandbar, leaving the Dependence snagged in an even more difficult position than before. The rock throwers quickly realized the ship's plight, and responded with a hurrah — and a fresh round of projectiles.

As their confidence grew, van Clynne's troops steadily increased the caliber of their stones. Lieutenant Clark's curses reached a new fervor as he urged his men to row themselves off the rocks and retreat. The river roiled with fresh and heavy stones, and for a moment it appeared the great British terror of the Hudson was about to meet her doom.

Surely that would have been the case had the troop of American soldiers — two full companies of men, under the personal direction of Major General Israel Putnam himself — been able to fight their way past the last marines and rangers in a few minutes' less time. Their shouts as they reached the shore added to the confusion, and Clark felt a sinking sensation in his stomach he had never experienced while wearing the king's coat of service in the navy. But a roar from his 32-pounder succeeded in rallying his spirits; even more importantly, it helped loosen the ship from its snare.

"All hands — get us the hell out of here!" yelled the lieutenant, not caring how ignoble his words would sound to posterity. "Get us the hell out of here!"

Free of the bomb canoe, Jake took two immense strokes and found himself back at the floating iron barrier. He climbed atop, pausing to cough as much of the river water from his lungs as possible.

Though the thunder and lightning had faded, cannon fire on shore and from the Dependence took up the slack. Pandemonium echoed around him, the gunshots joined by shouts and cries from the wounded. No longer hampered by the rain, fires broke out with vengeance all along the river below. It seemed as if he had swum from the Hudson directly to the mouth of the river Lethe at Hades' gate.

The bomb canoe was floating downstream, carried by the current. Jake had no idea whether it was still close enough to damage the chain if it exploded; indeed, he had no idea how long it would be before the bomb went off. Both matters were out of his hands — his best course now was to run like hell for the shore.

Under any circumstance, running along the chain, with its floats moving back and forth with the waves, would have been a daunting if not impossible task. Given the churning of the river due to the storm and Jake's tired and bruised condition, however, it was not even conceivable. He took one step and fell flat on his face, dropping his arms barely in time to break his fall. Groping forward, he managed to reach the end of one float and climb to another. He made the next one before slipping again, this time hitting his chin on the heaving iron. River water filled his mouth and he began coughing so hard he fell over. Some action of the river or the storm punched a link up into his ribs so severely that he nearly rebounded into the air. He began flailing about, as if under attack from some monstrous creature of the deep. For a moment, blinded by the pounding of the water into his face, Jake thought he saw the chain rise up and tangle itself around him, as if it were a giant ray or eel, trying to strangle him.

The monster Despair, more powerful by far than any denizen of the river or sea, loomed at his back, its icy grip pinching the strained muscles in Jake's neck. With a start, the patriot realized he had slipped off the logs and was completely under water.

He opened his good eye and thought he saw two figures below him, worm-eaten corpses with their arms extended to him, hair flowing in the current and dresses billowing with the river's movement. He muscled every last ounce of strength into his arms and pushed for the surface, kicked his legs and struck his arm on one of the barrier's supports; despite the pain, he used it for leverage and lurched away.

And then in a second the storm vanished completely, the wind finally pushing the clouds so hard against the surrounding mountains that they were drained of their liquid in one last torrent, and had nothing left. The Hudson in that brief moment went calm as glass, and Jake made strong progress toward shore.

Free of the chain, free of the monsters of his imagination, the patriot saw the dark outline of St. Anthony's looming overhead. In that instant it turned from demon to protector, a natural barrier that helped the Americans form their line against the British tyrants. The river and her eddies helped now, with a current that pushed him toward land. Jake felt a sudden burst of speed, and as he stroked for the riverbank shook his head clear of the mucus that had accumulated during his struggle.