"Take us to Green." Jake glanced northward, as if he could see their destination through the thick trees and growing rain. It was almost nightfall; the attack might already be underway. "We'll risk whatever we must to make up the time. If we run into the rangers, I will go ahead to the river or wherever I can find a boat. You lead the men."
"But if we stay inland, our chances — "
"Come on, General, there's no time to lose," smirked Jake, picking up his horse's reins and getting the party into motion again with a good kick of his heels. "I would think a captain-general would not waste a moment when the enemy is at hand."
"It is a hereditary title only," mumbled van Clynne.
The Tories had proceeded upriver at a slower though nonetheless deliberate pace, shepherded by the Dependence. Their first test came at King's Ferry, which despite the name was held by American troops.
The Dependence fired a few shots from her smaller guns above the ferry at Verplanck's Point, which was lightly and in truth poorly manned. A few muskets answered from the primitive earthworks, but the British forces didn't tarry long enough to be bothered by them. The stretch of river north of Verplanck's was ordinarily a calm lake, lying placidly below Dunderbury Mountain; the Dependence and her accompanying boats made their way slowly along the eastern shore, conserving their strength for the coming attack as the weather steadily rose against them.
The river forms a V here, with the Peeks Kill at the vortex. As the assault was launched, the Dependence would draw the attention of the defenders near the riverside and inland at the camps near Robinson's Bridge that have come to be known as Continental Village. The marines and rangers, meanwhile, would come ashore in the relative calm of Lent's Cove, an easy landing area removed from the main rebel positions. This would allow them to form up before proceeding inland. The strategy followed roughly the same pattern taken during a raid earlier in the year, and the marines could walk through it with their eyes closed.
Busch and his bomb canoe, meanwhile, would slip upstream to the chain. He would have to stay as close to the eastern shore as possible to avoid Forts Clinton and Montgomery, which lay directly across the narrow neck of the river from his target.
Lieutenant Clark, the master of the Dependence, inspected his vessel as they reached their staging area. Already the night was falling, and the pistol which would launch the attack was loaded and stuck in his belt.
Busch, walking the long deck and scanning the empty river, kept to himself. This day was the culmination of many weeks of planning; now that it had come, he felt a certain stillness inside his chest, a quiet even more profound than his studied outward manner. He had no doubt that he was about to strike a death blow to the Revolution; in so doing, he would also win much glory for himself. But his thoughts were not focused on that, nor even on the difficulties of the mission ahead. For one brief moment he looked southward on the river in the direction of the Richmond. Smith — or Gibbs, if that was his true name — would be dead by now. A twinge of regret wandered through the depths of the Tory's soul, for he recognized that under different circumstances the two men might have been good friends.
But Gibbs had made a fatal mistake, placing his own ego before that of his sovereign's; all of these rebels had done this in their hubris, and now they must pay for it.
Lieutenant Clark met Busch at the bow of the ship, standing near the massive gun that made the galley the most fearsome raider above New York. Even in the growing shadows and light rain it was an impressive weapon, with a bulk that belonged to a living thing. The wooden carriage that cradled it seemed a squat elephant, taken from the Hindoo wilds. The large iron pipe was a lion's prone body, coiled and ready to strike.
The deck around her had been cleared and made ready for action; the gun crew stood to one side, watching as the captain studied the far shore with his spyglass. Many of these men had been with Clark aboard the Phoenix when the galley was captured, and were the hardened salt of the sea, prepared to follow him up the River Styx if necessary.
The marines, bayonets sharpened and musket locks covered with protective cloth against the weather, stood amidships, trying to pretend that they were not nervous about the pending battle. A supply of whale oil, as well as candlewood and kindling, had been stored in a row of casks; half the countryside would soon be on fire, if the weather allowed.
The rest of the ship's complement was at battle stations, straining their eyes to see if the rebels on shore had spotted them. There were no signs that they had, though they fully expected word of their arrival would have been passed by now. "Are you ready?" Clark asked Busch. "More than ready," said the captain. "Then let's go."
He nodded at the gunners and the crew instantly sprang to work, readying their large cannon. As the match was raised, Clark handed Busch the pistol from his belt. The Tory captain smiled at the honor, and nodded in appreciation at the finely crafted gun — then fired. Instantly, the gunners answered with their own personal hurrah: the thick, throaty roar of the massive lion by their side.
Even before the huge ball struck through the roof of one of the homes along the river, the British boats had begun to strain for the western shore.
Though neither Rose nor van Clynne had managed to alert them, the patriot defenses were not idle. Even before the gunfire at Verplanck's, lookouts had spotted the Dependence and the other boats heading north, and had signaled an alarm with the aid of a series of tower signals and beacon fires that formed a chain of their own up and down the valley. The fires became more pronounced as the dusk approached, and before the British rangers had reached the shore near the creek, Americans as far north as Fishkill knew something was up.
But it was one thing to know an attack was underway, and another to meet it effectively. Twice this spring, the area around Peekskill had been attacked by well-coordinated raiding parties. While there were now more American troops and a new overall commander here, the general result was much the same. The mobility of the British force and the disposition of the American camps meant the shoreline was practically conceded to the attackers. The inland village itself was protected, but when the marines and rangers touched shore not a single bullet crossed their path. The Dependence and her round-bottom hull floated directly south of St. Anthony's Nose, in roughly the area she had been the day before when Jake observed the feint from the hillside. She switched her target from the houses on shore to the gun works eastward at Fort Independence at the head of the Peeks Kill Creek — though perhaps it inflates the post's strength to capitalize its name.
Van Clynne and the Connecticut men did a good job keeping up with Jake, and in fact were no more than a few rods behind him as he approached the riverbank near Lent's Cove. But the enemy army had been ashore for nearly a quarter hour by then — a fact announced to Jake by two small balls of lead sailing just above his head.
He dove off his horse to the ground just ahead of a more concerted volley. The Connecticut troops followed suit, van Clynne's curses ringing in their ears.
Jake's brain realized he was too late. Not only would Busch already have a head start but he now had to fight his way past a considerable force of rangers and British marines. But it was his heart that motivated him, pushing him through the bushes and the rapidly darkening woods, telling him he must not give up no matter what the circumstances.