For a stretch of land under violent attack, the shoreline was remarkably peaceful. In truth, the few local inhabitants had wisely fled for their lives. With the British marines vanquished, Jake and Private Martin had their pick of the vessels beached along the cove.
Their pick of one, that is, which was perched precariously on a group of rocks overlooking the water. It was the only craft in sight, if one excepts the British whale-boats, which were too large for them to maneuver successfully, and the equally impractical galley well offshore.
As it happened, they would have chosen the boat even among a million others. For the craft in question was a birch bark canoe.
Were there more time to praise the construction of this genre of vessel, several pages could be filled regarding the sturdiness of the hull and the effectiveness of the very lightweight structure, which made the boat highly maneuverable. Jake lifted it without Martin's help and launched it immediately into the river, where the doughty private quickly joined him. The two men pushed their paddles into the water and the craft seemed to jump beneath them, hurrying northward as if its Indian maker had bestowed a supernatural spirit within its ribs.
The weak fires ashore, hampered by the drizzle, were now the only source of illumination. Behind them to the west, fierce Bear Mountain growled in the wet darkness, throwing fits and shadows across the channel as they broke into the open water.
A brilliant red and yellow flash lit the river above them, and the waves reverberated with the sound of the Dependence's 32-pound cannon unleashing an awesome missile. The round iron ball groaned and whistled as it rent the air, and for a moment even Jake feared that the cannon had been fired at them. The dull thud of the projectile crashing harmlessly against rock and mud was not so much a reprieve as a warning; they had a long way to go before fulfilling their mission.
Fortunately, the British vessel seemed to be concentrating on Fort Independence and was busy maneuvering at the mouth of the creek below it, seeking to draw as much attention as possible. The current and the rising wind made it difficult for the galley to stay in position to fire.
It also made it extremely difficult for Jake and Private Martin to paddle upstream, as the rain now started to pick at their faces like a swarm of angry bees.
"Pace yourself with long strokes," Jake instructed his bowman. "Lean against the left side of the canoe and I'll compensate back here."
Martin did not answer, but Jake noticed a better pull. He hoped that the heavily laden bomb canoe would find the going several times as difficult.
Their small boat shook with the reflected reverberation of another round from the Dependence. Jake looked up and realized that the vessel was considerably closer to them than he had thought — and in fact was speeding south on a collision course with their canoe. "Stroke, Martin, stroke!" commanded Jake, going at the water like a grave digger in the last moment before Armageddon. The private responded not only with strong strokes, but with a cheery hum meant to revive his sagging spirits. The song, naturally enough, was "Yankee Doodle."
Before Jake could order the private to keep quiet in hopes the enemy might miss them, an alarm rose on the Dependence. As a swivel was manned and aimed in their direction, Jake took up the chorus of the song — and bent hard over the canoe, tucking the boat closer to the rocky shore.
The Dependence, which had been changing position to cover the force that seemed to be under attack at the cove, came on strong. But Jake managed to slip the canoe to the side, escaping the collision and clearing the long arms of the sweeping oars.
"Fire, damn you!" shouted the master of the galley, barely ten yards away. "Sink that infernal boat and its blasted singing!"
Chapter Forty-one
Jake's guess about the effects of the wind and current on the bomb canoe was correct. Towed behind an ordinary dugout canoe manned by Busch and the sailor he had recruited on the Richmond, its bow was a heavy anchor. The craft kept sliding against its tow rope, trying to change direction; it was a struggle to make any progress at all.
Nonetheless, they kept at it. Busch's determined example rallied the hulking sailor at the rear of the canoe. The man, whom the ranger captain had chosen largely for the size of his shoulders and chest, began now to pay back the faith shown in him. A lull in the wind presented an opening, and they began a steady climb against the passion of the water. The chain, stretched across its wooden logs, lay ahead; at this slow but steady pace, it would take no more than a few minutes to reach.
"Come now," said Busch aloud to the sailor behind him. "There's a thousand guineas' reward waiting if we bull the rebels' iron in half."
"Why didn't you say so earlier!" exclaimed the sailor, redoubling his efforts.
At least one subject of His Majesty King George III did not need any hint of pecuniary reward to fire his energy on this dark night. Major Dr. Harland Keen had all the motivation he needed-indeed, one might say he was over-motivated, with a surfeit of evil energy burning at the core of his twisted soul.
The blast of van Clynne's salt barrel had knocked Keen against one of the ship's masts with such force that he lay unconscious on the deck for several minutes. During that time, the rebels escaped and the Richmond's crew went about the business of securing the vessel with no attention to him. His prostrate body was treated much as a broken and discarded spar might have been; indeed, the lumber might have received more concern, as it would have potentially played some role in the operation of the ship.
There were many wounded men aboard, but the victim whose injuries were most important was the ship herself. She leaned badly to port, where the explosion had sent a jagged finger downward to yank at the keel, cracking the boards badly enough to allow water to flood the lower gun deck. The sailors worked madly to seal this breach, which was as severe and deadly as any inflicted by a warship in battle.
While they were at least not subject to bombardment as they worked, the circumstances of the blast, the peculiar shape of the resulting wound, and the disruptive effect on the boat's entire structure presented problems that would have challenged even Admiral Drake's hand-picked and battle-hardened crew on the Golden Hind. The approaching darkness and gathering storm clouds, which kicked up the wind and the river's waves, added to their difficulties. The few ill-aimed rounds they threw at the rebels were mere tokens, and the small force they sent in the cutter was the most Captain Gidoin could spare to preserve British honor without losing his chances of preserving his ship.
The Richmond had been ripped from her anchors by the blast, and drifted for some time before she could be brought fully under control. The vessel was not the biggest in the British fleet, nor the strongest, but still she had her pride. With great creaks and groans she pulled her timbers together, aided by the ministrations of her retainers. She had been well engineered and manufactured; her breeding finally won out over the grievous hurt that had been inflicted.
By the time Keen had regained enough of his senses to push himself upright on the deck and wipe his brow with his hand, the master of the Richmond felt reasonably sure his ship would survive. But several more hours of close work remained before it could proceed south to New York City and permanent repairs.
Keen had no desire to go with her, much less help tend the wounded around him, though since he was a doctor such might be considered his moral duty. His entire concern was the Dutchman, who had managed to outwit him.
Keen's enmity for the squire reached apocalyptic proportions, and incited in him a positively artistic hate. He saw himself flaying van Clynne alive while turning him on a spit, the fire fueled by the oozing strips of human fat. He envisioned the construction of an elaborate apparatus that would sustain the squire's heart while his legs and arms were sawed off. He foresaw all manner of hideous tortures that would have put the storied Borgias to shame.