Jim DeFelice - The iroh chain

And then the Hudson was lit by a fireball unseen since the Earth's creation.

The water was rent in two. Huge waves welled up in a massive tide, pushed by a force several times that of the greatest Caribbean hurricane. The air itself turned hot from the friction of the blast, rushing against the shore like the hard blade of a carpenter's plane, taking with it whole trees and immense boulders, while burning the unprotected flesh from men's faces. Jake was propelled a hundred yards directly upstream, and then sucked back by the rebounding waves. He was tossed like a cloth sack against the chain, landing directly atop a float.

The patriot barrier shook with the force of the blow, rebounding up and down all across its length as the strong rope of a hammock under the weight of a child jumping on it. But like such a rope, the boundary held — whether because of superior design and manufacture, some trick of the river's reflection, or even Providence herself, the reader may take his pick. An engineer would realize the orientation of the chain was such that it actually rode much of the shock wave, which was largely wasted in the open air.

Even so, the iron and logs groaned so loudly that Jake's first thought was that he had failed. He lay on his back against the logs for a long moment, dark dread once again filling his head. But he soon realized the wood below him was intact, and creaking against its fellows; he sat up and began shouting insane hosannas as if he had been deposited directly into the balmy waters of the Mighty Jordan, en route to heaven.

Old Put pushed his stocky torso from the ground. Frowning, he retrieved his hat from the bush where it had been blown by the shock of the bomb canoe's blast just upriver. The cocked hat had been fatally bruised; one fold had been torn halfway through and the other permanently folded so that it hung down over his face. He tossed it aside and began shouting at his men to look alive, to take up their positions, to finish rounding up their prisoners and rout any other Tory or Briton who dared darken the surrounding woods with his presence.

General Putnam is among the most esteemed of American leaders, and certainly one of the oldest; while he appeared as something of a rooster strutting around the barnyard barking orders, still his commands were received with the alacrity one expects from soldiers responding out of respect for the man as well as the rank.

Except from the Connecticut men, who looked to their own general for direction.

"Begging your pardon, sir," said one of the privates, pointing to their adopted leader. "But General van Clynne has taken us under his command, and as he is of captain-general rank with a surfeit of clusters, we answer to him, sir."

"Captain-general? Clusters?" scowled Old Put. "When did Congress establish such a ridiculous rank?"

"It is a hereditary title from the Dutch, sir," said van Clynne quickly, "one which I seldom invoke except under the most dire circumstances, with which we were faced."

The Dutchman stepped forward and reached up to doff his hat. As it had been blown off his head, he came up empty-handed, but bowed nonetheless.

"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Putnam.

"Surely Miss McGuiness told you about me when she arrived," said van Clynne. "She is a stubborn young woman, sir, but you must make allowances for her; her heart is that of a true patriot." "What Miss McGuiness? What in damnation are you talking about? Speak clearly and quickly, or I’ll have you flogged." "Rose McGuiness. Didn't she alert you to the plot against the chain?" "What plot?"

The general could not have realized how grave a mistake the question was, for it invited the Dutchman to launch into a full narrative of the night's adventures. Despite Old Put's constant exhortations to get to the point, van Clynne embroidered a lengthy tale of destruction and woe — with himself, naturally, at the center of it.

The general, tiring of the discourse and suspicious of the Dutchman, would have had him slapped in irons, except for the mention of Jake Gibbs's name.

"Jake is involved in this?"

"After a fashion, sir, after a fashion. We are a team, as it were."

Putnam was spared further details by the timely arrival of Jane, who rode astride the bareback horse much as a young lad would have. She dismounted in a flash, her heavy woolen cloak swirling around to reveal her homespun skirts — all soaked as badly as any shirt of Job's. To Claus van Clynne, this was the most beautiful sight imaginable, the swish of a tulip petal loosened by the wind. "My sweet Jane!" "Claus!"

The two dear hearts came together with a crash that rivaled the recent explosion. General Putnam was about to take the opportunity to attend to more important matters, when Jane broke free of her lover's grasp and stopped him.

"General, please — I've ridden nearly the whole night to find you. A British spy has taken a young servant girl named Rose McGuiness hostage. She must be rescued — Claus, the man's name is Dr. Keen; he says you're to come to Marshad's cottage without any soldiers, or he'll kill Rose straight away. And then he'll start in on Uncle."

While van Clynne was confronting this new twist, his erstwhile partner was basking in the sweet calm that victory brings. Triumph makes all manner of injuries light nuisances, easily dismissed. The river was illuminated by fresh watch fires across the way; overhead, the stars fought through the fading clouds and glittered with all their might. Bear Mountain seemed to hunch his shoulders and proclaim his majesty, the Hudson lapping at his feet with a gentle snicker.

Jake might have been forgiven if, as he sat cross-legged, still half in the water, he thought this glorious show of Nature was all for his benefit. His exertions had left him near drunk with the afterglow of his body's fiery humors. The knife wound in his hip had stopped bleeding; his other wounds and bruises drifted away like memories of lost bets.

Some hoarse shouts nearby quickly sobered him. The patrolling whaleboat had been literally blown to splinters, and its soldiers were now clinging to the rocking chain as if it were a life raft.

"Make your way towards me," shouted Jake, gingerly going out to help them. The British sailor and one of their comrades had been lost in the confusion, but otherwise their injuries were light.

Jake pointed them back to shore and helped the stragglers. As the way became easier, his thoughts turned to his mission to Albany; he must leave tonight if he were to reach General Schuyler before his deadline. He also thought of the woman he had left there some weeks before, Sarah Thomas. She would welcome him gladly when he arrived.

Distracted by her image in his brain, he did not notice the man with the rifle leveled at the shivering regulars who had reached shore ahead of him.

"Stand back," said the old man, his shoulders against the rocky crag on the narrow bank. "Stand back or I'll kill you all." Jake knew who he must be at once. "Mr. Busch — don't shoot at us. We're on your side." "Side? What side?" "The patriot side," said Jake. "I don't know what you're talking about. You are all trespassing on my land."

They outnumbered him, and if they rushed him would surely overcome him. The rifle was loaded though, and even in the dim light he surely would not miss hitting someone.

"We've come to try and help you find your daughter," offered Jake. "We heard she was lost."

"Annie? Yes, I cannot seem to find her. She and John have been missing since supper. It's John — the boy always gets into trouble. He is a rebellious scoundrel — if I told him to walk he would run."