"We can only hope, sir."
Chapter Fifteen
Have you killed many men?"
The question caught Jake so completely by surprise that he fumbled for an answer. "One or two."
"You are a poor liar, Smith, but that is in your favor at least," said Busch, patting his horse's flank as the animal picked its head from the stream. It was now well past midday; except for a brief lunch, this was their first stop since leaving the rest of the troop.
"I recognized that about you the moment I met you. It's at the center of who you are. You're all surface, Smith; you're no more capable of lying than that squirrel on the ground there. Consider it your defining virtue."
"Maybe it's a flaw," said Jake. He fingered his musketoon, its metal furnishings hot from the sun. Busch had his sword in his hand, and both men turned watchfully toward the road every few moments, guarding against attack.
"You proved yourself when you saved my life," said Busch, "but there is a quality about you — I would have trusted you even without such an obvious demonstration."
Jake said nothing.
"Better a brave man incapable of disguising his feelings than a cowardly deceptor," continued the ranger captain, remounting. "I should have stayed and defended my farm," said Jake. "I was afraid then; I have to make up for it now." "Fishkill is filled with rebels." "My farm was nearer the Brinckerhoffs in Wiccopee than Fishkill." Busch nodded. "I know them; they are hot rebels, all against the king. You did well to flee." "I can't help but feel like a coward." "Then you'll have to find the chance to redeem yourself. Let's go; we've got no time to brood."
The Tory captain prodded his horse back to the road as Jake boarded his own. They rode in hot fury for several miles, once more following an obscure trail that climbed upwards through the hills. Busch seemed to know this territory every bit as well as van Clynne, whose knowledge of farm lanes and city alleyways rivaled a bishop's command of church law. It was necessary that they ride in obscurity as well as with haste; their green coats and bearskin helmets made it clear that they were the enemy, and would give any Continental soldier a free pass to shoot at them. Yet Busch apparently felt it was a matter of honor to show the uniform, and undoubtedly would have anointed Jake honorary coronet and flag carrier if they had a second ensign for their unit.
Jake was thankful that the late Major Johnson had supplied him with such a powerful horse; his own stomach was starting to ache from hunger but the animal seemed to have not a care in the world, gliding through the narrow path with an ease that Pegasus would have envied. The route, climbing steadily upwards, appeared to have been worn from a crevice in the hillside, strewn with massive boulders and flanked by a succession of gnarled trees.
The country they were riding over was among the most beautiful in America. There are some philosophers who hold that Noah's Flood was precipitated by a vast melting of polar ice, which at God's call washed whole civilizations away in its path; if this is so, perhaps that same ice age carved away the canyons of the river, heaving apart the hills much the way the gap in floorboards is widened by freezing water during the winter.
Jake did not realize that they had reached the top of one of those canyon sides until the river appeared below him. The view was so shocking that he felt his breath catch between his ribs, and even his stallion stopped short.
In the first instant, he saw the strong blue ribbon of the Hudson and its frothing surface, the ancient arm of Nature reaching out toward her sister the Atlantic from the north. In the next moment he saw mankind's stubborn expression of power and will, an exertion borne of the proposition that all Americans should be free from tyranny, and a guarantee that Liberty would not be left to wither and die in the New World — the great iron chain that had been stretched across the river.
Let the reader forget everything he knows of chains and rivers. The impression of the scene may be properly formed only after the mind is a complete blank, with distracting preconceptions and mistaken notions banished.
Draw first the muscular body of water, foaming slightly at the edges with the great torrent of water that flows back and forth daily. Then sketch sharp lines of gray and black at the borders, angry boulders and rocks heaped among the bits of green and brown at the water's boundary. Add the taste and light smell of salt, for the river water here mixes with the sea.
Green — there is much green, since the hills are rugged and the population sparse — dominates the edges of the picture. Huge trees — hemlock and chestnut, oak and evergreen — form a tall brotherhood halfway to heaven, interspersed with smaller but sweeter maple, some birch, and the occasional willow.
Fort Independence lies well behind you and to your left; it cannot be seen because of the topography and trees. Two other forts lie across the river. To the left, there is Fort Clinton, which is not so much a fort as a series of earthworks with ambition. To the right across the Popolopen Creek and connected by a barely discernible wooden bridge lies Fort Montgomery. This is more substantial, as befits a place named after the Revolution's first hero, General Robert Montgomery. The general also happens to have been Jake's first mentor, and if one were able to turn back from the sights below and scan Jake's face, the smallest blush and tear might be seen, bare hints of the sad memory of his leader's death. Jake had watched him fall in the dark cliffs below Quebec; the impotence of that moment still rattled his limbs.
Follow the line of the water now, finding the low shoreline just above Fort Montgomery. There is a thick, dotted line drawn diagonally across the river, a large brown ink stain such as one finds on a student's crib sheet for Greek. The mark ebbs upward and downward with the tide. It is thick and muscular but unnatural, and at first glance it appears not to have been made by humans but by some ancient god, Vulcan perhaps, who has decided to upset the order of things.
Closer inspection reveals the line to be marked by sunken tree trunks, hewn into uniform logs. And staring a few seconds more reveals a darkness in the blue waves that links them, a black deeper than the depths, some strength beyond reckoning that can throttle even Vulcan's forge — strengthened arm, holding him in check.
That is the chain. That is the band of iron formed by hundreds of men working for more than a year, around the clock. That is all that stands between the massive British armada even now gathering in New York harbor, and the vulnerable middle country of the American heartland.
You are not fully impressed? Then stare at the banks until you realize that the small specks, the dots tinier than fleas scattered on the banks of the river near the terminal points, are not fleas but men. Wait until the sun's beams ricochet off the river to hit you full force, impressing not themselves but the dark iron barrier into your retina.
"Even though the rebels built it," declared Busch from his horse, "it's an ingenious defense. Not even the Romans could have done better."
"Can anything pass?"
"Nothing," said the captain. "Even to try would be suicide, at least while the forts on the opposite shore are manned. But it blocks the rebels as well as us. You have heard of our galley, the Dependence?"
"There was some talk of it at Stoneman's," said Jake, "but I wouldn't know it from Lord Howe's flagship."
"It was a rebel galley we captured in New York. The ship is able to raid the shores below the chain with impunity, because the rebel sloops cannot come south to stop it."
"The rebels have warships on the river?"
"At least two in Poughkeepsie. But they are blocked by the chain."