Jim DeFelice - The iroh chain

"And the girl?" asked van Clynne, taking a short step to his right as he looked for cover. "What have you done with her?"

"She was having difficulty sleeping, so I prescribed some powders. They seem to have worked very well; I left her snoring on the bench of my coach."

Van Clynne took another step. His lighting of the candle had been a signal to his men that he was inside; they were to proceed forthwith to the attack, advancing with weapons drawn and bayonets sharpened. The Dutchman had only to pass a few light words with his quarry and the engagement would be his. In truth, rarely had victory come to him so easily.

"I see you have not yet replaced your hat," said the Dutchman. "But you have at least improved the color of your coat."

"I like to believe I can learn from my mistakes."

Van Clynne frowned to himself and wondered where his men were. This was the problem with using soldiers who were not Dutch — they might be filled with energy, but had no sense of timing or discipline. "Considering that you are a medical doctor, sir," he stalled, "perhaps you would consult with me on certain difficulties I have been having with my digestion. You worked wonders with your leeches."

"I don't intend on making that mistake again," said Keen, moving his left hand to the fuse.

Van Clynne threw himself toward the candle, dousing the light and yelling for his men to launch their assault. But he was not answered by the glorious sounds of a charging company of bloodthirsty Continentals. Nor did Keen fire in his direction. Instead, the night became day and van Clynne found himself not only illuminated but surrounded by a ring of bright phosphorous laid in a deep trail with several full pots at strategic spots in the ruins. The surrounding walls, which had been covered with a thin pitch, caught fire, becoming thick torches in the night.

At the same time, a dozen barrels placed in the woods ignited with a purplish powder that rendered anyone within twenty feet completely helpless — and so was van Clynne's army temporarily annihilated.

"You didn't think I would shoot at you in the dark, did you?" asked Keen. The doctor had concealed a small bomblet in his hand, and lit it off the gun's fuse before dropping it into a pile of the phosphorus. "I'm afraid I found it expedient to remove the brigade you brought here; I wouldn't want them interfering with our interview."

Van Clynne pulled himself up indignantly. "This is but a stage trick," he said. "What will we have next, dancing clowns?"

"If you wish," said Keen, pointing the gun at van Clynne's feet. "Dance."

"I will not, sir. I would rather die."

The bullet that ricocheted directly at van Clynne's feet did not change his opinion, but the second one did. The Dutchman hopped up immediately, and was still in the air when the third bullet whizzed by his toes.

The reader, not to mention the squire, will naturally wonder how Keen was able to accomplish this, when he was holding only one gun. The ingenious doctor had used his study of the writings of Marco Polo and certain Chinese scholars to construct a musket with multiple tubes, whose lock end contained not one but three different firing mechanisms. Small balls and their charges were wedged into cylinders directly above the stock and ignited by the end of the fuse when it was touched against them.

Keen did not bother explaining the gun's genesis or operation to van Clynne. Out of bullets, he merely put down the gun and reached into his pocket for another weapon, this one considerably more familiar to the Dutchman — Jake's Segallas. Van Clynne was not idle during this small interlude, reaching for a tomahawk and unleashing it in the doctor's direction. As he did so, it vanished into a wall of flames that suddenly shot up in front of him.

"I had some ambitions on being a stage designer when I was young," said Keen as the flare-up subsided. "I'm afraid I still have a tendency to indulge myself in theatrical bombast." "I was indeed impressed by that trick, sir. I begin to feel humbled in your presence." "If you believe in God, prepare your soul to meet him," said Keen, pointing the gun. "I recognize your weapon, sir; it belongs to a friend of mine who will go to great lengths to get it back." "Indeed."

"Its bullets, if I may say, are rather small." Claus took a cautious step forward. "They will sting, but they will not kill me."

"They do indeed sting," said Keen, whose own buttocks attested to their effect. "But I have taken the opportunity to add a treatment to them that will make them do considerably more than that. You have heard of the scorpion?"

"A delightful creature," said van Clynne. "Are you planning on following his example and cut your head off, now that I have you surrounded?"

"On your knees, pig."

"Jane — no!" shouted van Clynne.

His exclamation was completely in earnest, for Jane had managed to elude the ring of smoke and flames and slipped into the cottage to rescue her true love. Keen, however, interpreted the remark as a juvenile diversionary tactic, and so was nearly caught off guard when sweet Jane lunged at him with a large and heavy tree branch.

Nearly was not good enough, unfortunately. Keen leaped aside and tripped the girl, then swung and ducked van Clynne's second hatchet. "Tie him up," the doctor ordered Jane, pointing his gun. "And be quick about it." "I would sooner die," she replied. "Then I will kill you both," promised Keen. "Please, Jane, if you value our love, do as he says. I will gladly forfeit my life for yours." What bravery from the mouth of a Dutchman! What sentiments of love!

And surely the sentiment was heartfelt and genuine — though it should be noted for scientific accuracy that van Clynne had spotted a familiar shadow approaching through the darkness behind Keen. Sweet Jane bent her head, and with a tear in her eye took the rope the doctor tossed her.

"Tut, tut, my dear. We shall be together for all eternity," said van Clynne bravely. "This is but a momentary nuisance."

"Prepare to meet your maker," said Keen, in a voice at once so evil and dramatic that Shakespeare would have taken him for Burbage.

"It is you who should prepare yourself," said Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs, kicking away the short piece of smoldering wall that had covered his approach. "I would think the odds much higher of my rifle bullet finding you than your bullets hitting my friend."

So many events were crammed into the next second and a half that it would take several days — indeed, an entire trip from Westchester to Albany — to unravel them properly.

Jake had enlisted a company of American dragoons to assist him; mustered upwind on the hill leading to the roadway, they suddenly flashed their weapons and charged toward the ruins.

Van Clynne grabbed sweet Jane in his arms and dove with her to the ground.

Jake shot square at Keen, and swore later he hit him in the side.

Keen fired, but not at van Clynne or at Jake, nor at any of the soldiers for that matter. Instead he hit a specially prepared barrel, which exploded instantly, sending a dark powder into the air that doused the flickering phosphorous and blocked the stars and dim moon overhead.

Shouts, gunfire, screams — all mixed in the confused air. Jake grabbed a body he thought was the doctor's. Immediately a sweet odor filled his nose, somehow defeating the cotton he had placed there as a precaution against such tricks. He felt his grip inexplicably weaken. The mounted soldiers fell upon each other in the darkness. Horses wailed, a woman wept; by the time fires were lit and the smoke cleared, Keen and his carriage were gone.

Jake found Rose on the ground near where the carriage had been, Keen obviously calculating that his escape would be easier if he did not carry her along. The patriot took her into his arms and brought her to the cottage while the dragoons recovered themselves and set out after the doctor. Even as they mounted their horses, Jake knew the odds were greatly against them — but he also sensed that eventually he would meet Keen again.