The squire's ire cooled when Angell asked if he would like some ale. The colonel's experience had shown that a man who began angry could be calmed by drink, while a calm one would likely undergo the opposite effect. "We have some beer brewed by a local housewife," he suggested.
More magical words could not have been uttered, and van Clynne was soon not merely calm but in jolly form. The beer was a top-fermented ale that had a deep redness to it, which under other circumstances van Clynne might have inquired after, since the only housewife in these parts who made such a brew was a certain Margaret Schenck. But business was pressing.
"You must send a detachment of soldiers to the Great Chain immediately," said van Clynne. "I have it on the best authority that the British are planning a massive attack on it this very evening."
"An attack? Who told you this?"
"None other than the Revolution's finest spy, my assistant, Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs," said van Clynne. "I sent the good man out on a mission to break up a nefarious ring of Tory salt stealers, and he came up with this piece of intelligence for me."
The reader will be spared, as Colonel Angell was not, Claus van Clynne's narrative of his role in winning the Revolution single-handedly. While Angell realized he must discount by half everything van Clynne said, that division still left plenty of concern for the chain. And so on his authority two companies of men were mustered and sent marching triple time north to the river, told explicitly to brook no interruptions or diversion, and to fight to the death anyone who threatened the defenses.
Chapter Seventeen
Busch rode his horse at a quick pace through the woods despite the high undergrowth and looming rocks, plunging toward a narrow road on the northeastern foot of the mountain. He wove his way downward too carefully for his speed to be the product of mere haste or excitement; Jake, struggling along behind him, realized that Busch knew these mountainous woods better than most men know their own homes. The sun was now steadily sinking, and the slant of the landscape meant the ground before them was in heavy shadow. Nonetheless, the Tory's pace continued to increase until Jake lost sight of him. With only sound to guide them, horse and rider followed blindly, branches and bushes grazing their sides as they rode. Busch was waiting at the edge of the road, his horse barely winded. "We will have to trespass on a farmer's acres to reach the chain," he said. "He'll shoot us if he sees us." "He's a rebel?" asked Jake, who was as thankful as his horse for the rest.
"It has nothing to do with the war. He's quite mad, and has been that way for ten years. This is the safest route, though, since the rebels avoid his land. It's a pitiful hard-scrabble farm, strewn with rocks and lying on a sheltered nick of the hillside. The ground is treacherous, and there are two vicious dogs. Be careful about your horse. Ready?"
"Ready."
"Let's go then," said Busch, and he set off in a gallop down the road. Jake's horse was more comfortable on this comparatively level ground and he caught up with Busch. They rode side by side until they came to a field on the west side of the road. Once more the Tory dug his heels into his horse's flanks, steering the beast toward the low fence to his left. The animal bounded the rails as if they were twigs on the ground. Jake followed, urging his mount to do the same; the pair was soon flying across the dimly lit pasture toward a small orchard that overlooked the river. It was here that Jake heard the farmer's shouts, and then saw from the corner two black streaks heading in their direction.
The reader is no doubt acquainted with Hercules, who during his many labors came face to face with the giant Eurytion and his two-headed dog. The animals chasing Jake and Captain Busch had but one head apiece, yet they were nearly as fierce, snarling and snapping as they ran. They were also extremely fast, and though the two horsemen had the advantage of a head start, the pursuers gained on their winded mounts with every step.
Jake pushed his stallion faster, flattening himself against the animal's neck and urging it onward. His helmet strap broke with the jostling and the wind groped at his head, swirling its tangled fingers through his hair. The horse's body had turned hot beneath him, convulsing with each footfall, nearing the end of its endurance and strength. Jake dove tighter to its neck, trying at once to soothe it and urge it faster. The pair went over a small hedge and into an open field, but still the dogs came on. Their yaps and growls mixed with the pounding of hooves and the rush of air in Jake's ears, as if hell itself were closing behind him.
All at once he felt himself flying forward: one of the dogs had thrown itself at the stallion's legs.
The ground came up before Jake could properly prepare for it; his chin bashed hard and he felt a floating sensation in his brain.
His horse tumbled over in a somersault. It broke both its neck and a leg in the fall, but managed somehow to cling to life, screaming its agony in a wrenching whine.
The dog that had thrown itself at its legs had broken its ribs and gotten its muzzle mashed, but its venom was hardly choked; it raked its front claws on the horse's vulnerable stomach, trying to inflict more damage, unfazed by the injured animal's weak kicks.
The other dog descended on Jake, who had just risen to his knees when the demon barreled into his back. Still dazed, he had just enough sense to fall forward, trying to protect his neck. The dog raked its snout back and forth across his head, looking for an opening. These were not teeth, they were the hot fire of a glass furnace, withering all before them. The fangs slashed at the side of Jake's neck, ripping through the fleshy part of his earlobe; he just managed to duck enough to throw off the dog's aim as it clamped down, so that the animal ended up with his ponytail instead of his throat.
The hound growled as Jake shook himself free momentarily, spinning the black, furious shadow to the ground. In a flash it had rebounded back at him, stronger and more furious than ever, and for a brief second Jake felt the cold, wet sensation in the pit of his stomach he had felt only once before — on the cold cliffs near Quebec, when a redcoat's ball had taken him through the leg and he feared it was his turn to die.
But just as the animal clamped its jaws into Jake's side, a shot exploded next to his ear. The dog let go and Jake rolled backwards and onto his knees, catching his breath and steadying himself, his body still shaking from the fight.
Busch's bullet had gone straight through the animal's head. What had been a ball of fury moments before transformed instantly to a supine ball of fur lying peacefully on the ground.
Because of the ferocity of its attack, Jake would not have been surprised to find that the dog was a vicious hound bred from the wild beasts of deepest Africa. The reality was considerably different; it appeared to be one of the breed used in Scotland and Ireland to help herd sheep, an animal normally well known for its tame attitude toward humans. The warp of tyranny is not limited to human beings; all living things are twisted so strongly by it that they may turn against their own nature.
Jake's horse was writhing in agony on the ground a few yards away. He took the musket from the saddle holster and dispatched it quickly; it was the only way he could repay the animal's fine service. The stallion's murderer lay at its feet, already dead; Jake could not stop himself from smashing its skull with the butt-end of the gun in a burst of mad fury.
"Hurry," said Busch. "The farmer will be on the way with his guns. Take your weapons and jump on."