"Here we are," said van Clynne as they reached a fork. "To the right."
"No, this is the road to the general's headquarters," said Rose.
"Obviously in the dim light your tender eyes were momentarily clouded. Blink them twice, and follow me on the proper path."
"Your way heads east, mine is west. The Peek Skill Creek is west, is it not? And the general's headquarters in the village that lies near it?"
"The general's headquarters is indeed in the village near the creek," said van Clynne. "But we are not fish. My road will lead us to a shortcut and thence to another and a third. We will arrive in an hour at most."
"This will take us back to the Post Road," countered Rose. "And even a flying horse would take two hours to get to the general."
"Indeed. And we will be here all morning if you do not respect your elders and do as I say. Come." The Dutchman kicked his horse for the first time since he had boarded. The animal was so surprised he turned his head back to see if perhaps he had gotten a new master.
"My way," said the girl firmly, starting down it.
Now if there is one thing Claus van Clynne is truly and justly praised for, it is his knowledge of the road system of the province of New York. Indeed, the Dutchman has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the highways and byways of the eastern half of the continent, and could find his way from Georgia to Vincennes with little difficulty. He especially prided himself on his intimate familiarity with shortcuts; if there was a way to cut five minutes off a route, he not only knew it but could point to an alley shaving another two.
Nor was his ability failing him here, though he might have admitted under different circumstances that Putnam's headquarters could be reached from the left as well as the right fork. But, aside from the sour mood inflicted by the loss of his walking-around money, Rose's manner put him off. She had been somewhat disagreeable since their first acquaintance, and hardly acted with the deference his station as leader of their delegation demanded. He stuck his nose into the air and declined further comment, riding on and expecting Rose to come galloping up behind.
She did not. In fact, she decided to let go of the carriage horse she had tied behind her own so she could increase her speed northward to General Putnam. She was not only sure her way was the right one, she was happy to be free of the Dutchman and his laggard pace. Her heels eagerly found her mount's ribs in an effort to make up lost time.
Losing the horse was a critical mistake, though there was no way she could have known it. Had the animal not been left to stand idly at the intersection, the shadow lurking on the road half a league behind would have been forced to give up his chase, as the pain from his wounded rump had not responded satisfactorily to the cures he had administered. This was due in no small part to the aggravation caused by trotting behind his quarry.
But presented with a horse, Major Dr. Harland Keen saw the prospects for the swift completion of his mission improve greatly. Before climbing onto its back, he took two small bottles from the brown leather satchel he'd removed from the carriage. The contents of one were smeared as a salve on his wound; the other was divided between himself and the horse, man and animal taking an immense gulp.
The effects of the second bottle hit Keen more quickly than those of the first. His head lightened, and he felt his heart pounding in his chest with new energy. He boosted himself up on the animal's back, and found the mare as frisky as a two-year-old Arabian. The horse actually rose on her rear legs, anxious to run.
But before he could set out, he faced a choice — which road had they taken?
Keen had been too far behind to hear their arguing, and so had no way of knowing that either path would lead to one of his enemies. He decided to head down one until he reached some town or settlement; if he could find no trace of the fat Dutchman and the undernourished girl, he would retrace his steps and try the other.
There was no doubt in his mind that he would eventually find them, deliver his revenge, and then move on to apprehend the Gibbs character. In fact, Keen might be fairly said to be driven by the prospect of revenge, especially against the girl, whose actions at the cottage had catapulted her to the head of his list of likely candidates for experimentation.
Left or right?
He chose the left fork, for no other reason than it seemed to be the one his horse preferred, its nose already aimed in that direction.
Chapter Twenty-six
The sun's advance rays were just tickling the horizon as Jake secured the door of the barn where he had tied up the militia guards. He had little time to celebrate and bare seconds to catch his breath. The American spy feared one or two of the Tory prisoners inside the church might fight off the effects of their late-night drinking and notice he was gone.
Deciding to reenter the church through the choir window, Jake took two long pieces of rope from the barn and knotted them together. After listening at the door for any sound inside — none yet — he knotted a large circle in the rope, stood back and threw it up, hoping to hook around one of the wooden staves that stood in the bell tower window above. Two tries and nothing; by the third Jake was working on a story to explain his coming through the front door. On his fifth try, he caught a metal spike in the ledge. He was up the side and in the church so quickly that the parson would have applauded, thinking that only a soul bent on salvation — and enamored with his sermons — could move so quickly.
Jake found the choir loft empty as before. Leaving the rope dangling outside, he crept to the balcony, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior. When he saw the coast was clear he retrieved the rope, coiling it in the corner, then slipped over the choir rail and plummeted to the floor.
This was not a particularly quiet operation, and in fact he cursed aloud, echoing his knee's complaints. He proceeded to walk noisily through the church, carelessly kicking pieces of wood and a man or two lying on the floor. A complete circuit brought him back to the front door, where what began as a cautious knock soon developed into a very loud bang.
While their homemade hooch had rendered the prisoners nearly unconscious, Jake by now was making enough noise to wake the dead. Of course, the dead might have woken with less ill-effect — his pounding echoed and amplified the pounding between their temples, and the first reaction Jake heard behind him was a collection of groans and undisguised threats. "Smith, Smith, what the hell are you doing?" called Caleb Evans, stumbling toward him. "There's no one guarding the front door. Help me." "What do you mean?"
"Come on." Jake stepped back and took a running jab at heavy wooden door, pounding against it with his shoulder. The hinges barely creaked.
Caleb watched in bewilderment as he tried a second time. "Are you sure?"
"Don't you think the guards would be pounding on the other side if they were there?" Jake was so caught up in his role that he was out of breath. He wished he'd had the foresight to remove the strong board placed as a block across the door outside; as it now stood they would need several men rushing against it at once to break it down.
"The boy said the attack would come two hours after dawn," said Caleb, looking up at the soft light filtering into the church from the upper windows. "That's still a long way off."
"I was watching from the loft when the militia guards left," said Jake. "They ran off down the street with their weapons and haven't come back. Who knows what sort of trick Captain Busch is playing on them — we shouldn't wait to see if it fails." Jake took another run at the door, wincing as he rebounded. "Are you going to help me?"