Jim DeFelice - The iroh chain

"Mr. Busch, please put the gun down," said Jake, taking a step forward. His injured feet made him wince with pain, but at least his eye had opened and he could see normally. "It'll only scare your daughter when we find her."

The old man looked down at the weapon in his hands, as if confused at how it had gotten there. His attention was turned long enough for Jake to spring at him. But the gun was surrendered meekly. "My daughter?" asked the elder Busch. "She's gone. She died in the river. John, too." "John, too?" "Yes, sir."

The old man's face erupted with tears at the fate of his family, whether for the first or last time, neither Jake nor anyone else could tell.

In his defense, Van Clynne felt it was only fair to point out to sweet Jane that had this Rose followed his directions as to the proper path to take, she would not be in her current predicament. “This is what comes of questioning a Dutchman's counsel, my pumpkin."

"Claus, you have to rescue Rose," said Jane. "You must."

"Well, yes, I will do so without fail," said the Dutchman, who in truth was as interested in liberating his coins as the girl. His opinion of Rose had shifted slightly because she was a friend of Jane's — but only slightly. "If the general will lend me my troop back."

"Granted," said Putnam, who was prepared to do much more to get the squire out of his powdered white hair.

"But Dr. Keen said you must come alone — "

"Tut, tut, my dear; one doesn't go into the lion's den unarmed. Undoubtedly our doctor friend has some surprise in store for me, some stupendous-sized leech which he plans to twirl around my head. My men here will sneak through the brush and wait until I have flushed out his plot. It will undoubtedly be clever," added the Dutchman as an aside, "but the inherent limitations of the British intellect will leave a large gap for us to proceed through."

Jake and the soldiers helped the grief-stricken old Mr. Busch up to his farm, comforting him as best they could with the aid of some medicinal rum kept by the fireplace. The lieutenant colonel had just finished wrapping his wounds in bandages and taken a sip of the rum himself when there was a sharp knock at the door. One of the soldiers answered it to discover two men sent by General Putnam.

"We were told to fish Colonel Gibbs from the river if necessary," said one of the privates, "and return him before the general is drowned by verbiage."

"Do you understand those orders, sir?" asked the other, whose face betrayed the fact that he himself did not.

"Oh, absolutely," said Jake, laughing. "It means the general has made the acquaintanceship of my good friend, Claus van Clynne."

Jake borrowed some shoes and Mr. Busch's horse to ride to the house on the Fishkill road where the general had made his temporary headquarters. Along the way he found Private Martin, who claimed to have been blown there by the bomb blast. While that seemed highly unlikely, the Connecticut private could not remember what had happened if not that. In fact, he could not remember much of anything at all, including his adventure on the river or his brief sojourn under the command of "General" van Clynne.

Nor did he remember having been among the privates that Old Put had routed from a New York City wine cellar on the eve of the British invasion a year before.

"I'm sure I would remember that, sir," muttered the distressed soldier as General Putnam questioned him about the incident. In Jake's opinion, that was the one thing he might well remember, his profuse headshaking to the contrary.

"Well, what do you remember?" demanded the general.

"Being inoculated against the pox, sir."

At that, Old Put turned several shades of color. "Get back to the damn hospital then. Get!" The general turned to Jake as Martin vanished through the door. "These damn inoculations. Half my army is sick, and the other half is guarding the damn fools." "Begging your pardon, sir," said Jake, "but the Dutchman?" "The Dutchman?" "Claus van Clynne. I understood from your message that he was here."

"I sent him off with some men to look after a kidnapping. Frankly, I was glad to get rid of him. This van Clynne — he claimed to be your partner."

"He has served lately as my assistant," said Jake. "He has his own ideas about his importance. He has saved my life now on more than one occasion, though I'm not sure I would admit it in his presence."

"I doubt he would give you the chance," said the general.

Van Clynne's plan for foiling Dr. Keen was a classic snare maneuver, during which he would offer himself as temporary bait while his Connecticut soldiers closed the noose. After positioning his men in the woods near the cottage, he snuck back to the roadway and prepared to proceed toward the cottage.

At this point, sweet Jane threatened to become a barrier to the plan, wanting to join him. Van Clynne had to turn his considerable powers of persuasion on her, assuring her that in the first place he was well armed — the red ruby dirk was hidden up his sleeve and two tomahawks were secreted at the sides of his coat — and in the second, she would perform a much more useful function by remaining here.

"Doing what?"

"Well, you shall be our reserve," proclaimed the Dutchman. "Ready to swoop in like winged Victory herself at the moment of denouement."

"That is not a job," said Jane. "Rose is my friend and I want to help rescue her. I can and I shall."

Van Clynne recognized the strong bent in her eyes and knew it was as useless to argue with her as to rant against the lingering thunder.

Not that he wouldn't try either.

"Well, then," said the Dutchman, "you must sneak into the coach and attempt to retrieve my coins, if that's where they are. You can already consider them part of our joyful estate. As the wedding proverb says, 'What's yours is yours and what's mine is yours,' or something along those lines."

The squire was in fact endeavoring to send her from harm's way, as he supposed the coach would be far from the line of fire. Jane nodded at his advice that she must postpone her advance until he had given her a clear signal-a Mohawk war whoop. He demonstrated once to make sure she knew the sound.

"That's not a Mohawk call," she objected. "It's Huron."

Van Clynne frowned and made a note to instruct her on her future duties as faithful wife when he found himself at greater leisure.

Had Keen not already detected the Dutchman's presence thanks to an elaborate system of strings placed further north on the highway, the war whoop would have fully alerted him. In any event, he was well prepared when van Clynne rode slowly down the road to the ruined cottage, glanced around the environs, and then entered the small building. The fire had taken away three-quarters of the roof and a good portion of the rear wall, but otherwise it was reasonably intact, if sooty.

Fully expecting a trap, the Dutchman examined the shadows carefully. Then he set a candle on the stump of a stool before the fireplace and lit its wick with a bit of flint. The rain had ceased, and the stars were making an effort to contribute some illumination, but even so the ruins were dark. Still, there was more than enough light to reveal van Clynne's purses on a charred table in the center of the room.

The Dutchman's joy at discovering that they contained all of his coins was interrupted by Keen's voice behind him.

"And so, Mr. Clynne, we meet again."

"The van is an important part of my name," snapped the Dutchman, tucking the money inside his coat as he turned around. Even the dim candle before the hearth had enough light to reflect off the polished barrel of the weapon Keen held — an ancient though apparently operative matchlock musket, whose smoldering fuse hung at its side. "You should not like being called Dr. 'En, I suppose." "A man holding a gun on me can call me anything he pleases." "That is an interesting weapon," conceded van Clynne. "I took it for a museum piece." "Not at all. It is very old, but still exceedingly efficient." "Of Dutch design, I suppose." "Hardly."