Jake threw his pistol in the saddle pouch and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed his carbine and sword and picked up the musket from the ground but then realized he couldn't carry everything and still hold on to Busch. Taking the bag and the carbine in one hand, he pulled himself up with the other, clinging to the captain's coat as they rode away.
Busch plunged down the hillside toward a stone wall. He followed that to a wooded path leading to the river. This he rode down a good distance before finally slowing, confident that the farmer was no longer following them.
"At least the bastard has lost his dogs," said Busch. "That's some consolation. Are you all right?"
"We're even now," said Jake. "You've saved my life, and I yours." In the rush of the moment, the American patriot spoke completely from the heart; he could not feel animosity toward the man, though it soon might be his duty to kill him.
"I told you," laughed Busch. "We're brothers beneath the skin."
"I hope the dogs weren't rabid." Jake winced as he felt around his torn earlobe. He was otherwise intact and not permanently harmed.
"The man looked after the animals like they were his children," said Busch. "The beasts were probably healthier than either of us."
"How do you know?"
"The man is my father," replied Busch.
Such a remark would seem to warrant an immediate explanation, but the Tory captain offered none as he guided the horse through the woods. It was clear to Jake that they had circled around the large mountain that guarded the eastern approach to the chain, so that they had landed behind it; they were now heading south toward the terminus.
The path became so narrow and the way so dark that the two men finally dismounted and left the horse tied to a tree. Using a torch was out of the question; the light would have drawn attention from the forts across the river and any Continental units nearby. Given the desolate hillside they were now approaching, even a half-sleeping sentry would realize anything brighter than a firefly was out of place.
"My sister and I walked this path many nights," said Busch, stopping suddenly. "We loved to sneak down to the river when the moon was out and take a midnight swim. My parents would have beaten us to an inch of our lives if they'd found out — that was part of the attraction, I suspect. Here we climb down the rocks. It's steep but it will save us considerable time. Can you handle this?" "Yes." "Leave your carbine. It'll only get in the way. There are no guards at the edge of the chain." "Are you sure?"
"We were above here, see?" Busch pointed in the dark. "It was the first thing I looked for. Besides, a sentry would have a small fire. There's still a bit of light on the river, but the land is dark."
"Perhaps they're waiting for us."
"If they're that clever," said Busch, starting down, "they deserve to capture us. Come on now, be your brave self. You've passed the rough part."
Jake nodded. He was not going down unarmed — he quickly and carefully tucked his uncocked but loaded pistol in his belt at the front of his pants. The Segallas, meanwhile, was secured beneath his shirt; the elk knife lay in its sheath tucked into his boot.
As Busch had boasted earlier, there were no guards on the eastern terminus of the chain because the terrain was so nearly impassable. Certainly the only reason Jake was able to descend to the shoreline a few hundred yards upstream from it was the fact that he had a guide who had been slinking down this way since childhood. Even so, the last hundred feet to the river bank were nearly as frightening as the tumble on the ground under the dog's fangs. The rocks were wet and slimy, covered with spray as well as vegetation. Jake felt his foot give way, and only Busch's strong arms, grabbing Jake as he slid past, saved him.
"Don't fall," whispered Busch. "The rocks at the bottom are as sharp as ax heads."
It seemed beyond belief that children would come this way, but then in innocence everyone is brave.
"It's much easier if you have small hands and feet," said Busch, as if hearing Jake's thoughts. "You can poke them into the crevices. Takes longer, though."
The river was gently tickling the shoreline, eliciting a soft murmur from the rocks. Jake went slower and slower as his guide went faster and faster; the distance widened between them over the last twenty treacherous feet, and the disguised patriot reached bottom a full five minutes after his guide.
Bush was standing at the edge of the water. Just as Jake was about to apologize for taking so long, the captain waved his hand in front of his face and pointed out to the river. It was a moment or two before Jake could make out the shadow three-quarters of the way across.
It was a whaleboat, patrolling the water just north of the chain. The men inside were resting silently.
Busch and Jake stood like statues on the rocks for a minute that seemed like three hours. The night grew immeasurably colder in that time, dampness welling into the air. A fog began to form and the last hint of twilight disappeared. Jake's ears adjusted to the stillness so well he could hear the whispers of the soldiers in the boat, or thought he could; certainly he heard the order, "All right then, back to the fort." The oars slipped into the water and the shadow receded into the larger blackness.
"A last patrol as the sun finally sets," noted Busch. "Just before they light the watch fires, I suspect." He started picking his way along the bank. "That will be easy to time. Hold on to the tail of my coat. Be very careful."
The rocks were slippery, but twisted trees and other brush gave them handholds, and they soon were within a hundred yards of the chain. The logs holding it up creaked continually, moaning under the weight of the iron and complaining of the tide. The chain itself creaked like hinges on a door, except that the sound was multiplied many times; the effect was something like a team of waterwheels might make, if built entirely of iron and made to operate at an excruciatingly slow speed, each squeak and creak amplified by a succession of paper tubes.
The chain links had been finished and placed in the water the previous November. At first, the current proved so strong that they snapped and were pulled downstream. Finally, the engineer for the project, Lieutenant Thomas Machin, realized that with certain slight modifications, the chain would hold if placed on a diagonal from its western terminus, in effect running with the strongest current.
It happened that Jake had met Machin in Boston a few years before; the lieutenant had been among the "Indians" engaged in the famous tea party. Their acquaintanceship was extremely brief, and would not amount to much now — Machin was undoubtedly in a warm bed on the opposite shore, while Jake was starting to shiver with the cold on these rocks.
Busch stopped in front of him, and Jake realized he was studying something on the ground, unrelated to the chain.
"Come on," he said finally, pulling off his coat. "We shall see if the links are of equal strength and look for obstructions. We'll go out on the river."
Before Jake could protest, Captain Busch took off his boots and dove into the river, aiming for the heavy chain and its log support bobbing a few leagues out in the water. He moved quickly, as if afraid to dwell along the shoreline.
Jake would have much preferred to stay there, but saw no way to do so without being branded a coward. It seemed foolhardy to swim out in the darkness and climb aboard a fitful line of wheezing rafts. Yet had he stopped and thought about it, he would have realized he'd done many less rational things in the name of Freedom — Jake quickly stripped to his breeches and shirt, leaving his guns in his boots. Armed only with the knife, which he tucked inside his belt, he got down on his hands and knees and half-stumbled, half-swam off the rocks toward the dark iron backbone of the Americans' river defense.
Three yards out and the water grabbed him with a sudden jolt, hurling him downstream at the obstruction.