"I will have a boat," he said to Captain Gidoin once he recovered. The ship's master started to object, but the unworldly look in Keen's eyes warned him off. He quickly gave the order to have the major rowed ashore, even though he could ill afford to spare the men.
Keen stood in the bow of the small boat as it was rowed toward the spot on shore where he had left his carriage. There was an immediate obstacle to his plans for revenge — he had no idea where van Clynne was.
He could, however, make certain assumptions, the most important being that the Dutchman would endeavor to thwart the operation against the chain. To do so, he would undoubtedly enlist the assistance of the main American forces in the area, under General Putnam. Putnam, or one of his officers, would therefore know of his whereabouts.
Keen had observed that van Clynne was steadfastly loyal to his underlings — he had risked a great deal to save this Gibbs. How much more would he do to rescue the pretty young Miss McGuiness, bundled in the rear of Keen's carriage? Could she not be used to lure him to his fate?
Rose did not answer when the doctor put the question to her. This was largely due to the fact that she was still unconscious; the Chinese sleeping concoction he had administered before setting off to the Richmond would render her senseless for many hours yet.
The doctor took a lingering look at her body, limp and untrussed on the seat. Her legs were spread carelessly and she looked for all the world like a garden nymph, caught asleep beneath a lilac bush.
With great resolve, Keen forced himself to concentrate on his goal of revenge and closed the door to the coach. Without a clear plan yet, he began driving north toward Marshad's cottage; ruined as it was, it was the only spot in the area he knew.
Indeed, his ignorance of the country now worked against him. On his journey from New York he had relied exclusively on the knowledge of his driver. It was easy enough to find the river from the shore; one kept trying roads that headed west until it was reached. But finding Marshad's, especially in the growing darkness, was another story entirely.
And so the reader will not wonder that Keen was soon lost, and he realized he must enlist some native as a guide. This person could then be put to a second use — he would be dispatched to Putnam's headquarters, and told to find van Clynne.
Keen did not construct this scenario all at once; indeed, it took his fevered mind nearly a half hour's worth of travel before he conceded to himself that he was indeed lost. By that point, the chances of haphazardly coming across someone who would know the way to Marshad's — indeed, the chances of coming across anyone — were very limited. He therefore decided that he must stop at some inn or similar establishment and enlist aid there.
The inn he happened on was Prisco's.
Keen's clothes had been rent in the blast, and his face covered with bruises. But a few daubs of paint on his forehead and a fresh jacket — he chose brown, mindful of van Clynne's earlier remarks on local fashion — restored some dash to his appearance; when he walked into the inn he looked no worse than most of the patrons. Indeed, he outshone them all, as this was a particularly slow evening for the Prisco establishment — its only customers were the two uncommunicative checkers-playing gentlemen Jake had met earlier.
Keen gave the proprietor a polite smile when he greeted him at the threshold, and allowed himself to be shown to a Windsor-style chair that stood in front of a round hickory table arm's length from the fire. Prisco allowed as how he had some very fine rabbit stew left in the kitchen; Keen nodded and asked for some Madeira with which to wash it down. The order was taken up cheerfully — the good keeper made a nice profit on his wine sales.
"My niece will take care of you," said Prisco, retreating toward a back room.
The doctor saw his course fully developing; he would take this girl as a guide to the countryside, keeping her for his own pleasure once he had succeeded in luring his nemesis to destruction.
The second portion of his plan was abandoned as soon as Jane entered the room with a fine leather bottle of wine in her hand. As the reader has already seen sweet Jane described, there is no immediate need to amplify. It will be granted by all — with the natural exception of her true love, Claus van Clynne — that she is not, in any conventional sense, beautiful. Even the word "plain" is stretched somewhat to describe her.
But her instinct and intellect — now those are handsome indeed. Jane immediately realized that the stranger had some evil design in mind, and so she was on her guard as she approached his table. "Thank you, my dear," said Keen, beaming a smile at her. "I wonder — do you know who General Putnam is?" Jane looked at him oddly. "I doubt there is a person in the country who doesn't." Keen smiled. "And you know where to find him?"
"At his headquarters, I suppose." She leaned down to pour the wine, deciding that the man before her was a harmless simpleton. But the guest's next question showed her first instincts had been quite correct. "I wonder, could you tell me the way to Marshad's cottage?" "Martin Marshad?" she asked, endeavoring to keep her voice neutral. "The lawyer?" Keen nodded.
Marshad was a notorious — at least in her mind — Tory and spy; her visitor had just declared himself a perfidious skunk. Jane decided in an instant that she would alert her uncle, who as a member of the Committee of Safety and the local justice of the peace could have him arrested. Something in her manner gave her away; as she poured the wine into Keen's glass, she suddenly felt a cold hand clamp onto her arm.
"Do not scream, my dear," said the doctor. "I require your services as a guide and as a messenger." He smiled, and nodded with his head toward his left hand, which held Jake Gibbs's Segallas, stolen from Rose. "This weapon has two bullets left, so that after I shoot you, I can kill your uncle without bothering to take a second pistol from my belt. Let us get your cloak; I wouldn't want you to catch your death in this rain."
Chapter Forty-two
As glorious and adaptable as the birch canoe may be, it was not designed to withstand the grapeshot of a swivel gun, let alone the heavier calibers of cannonball. Jake and Private Martin were well aware of this defect, their joyful chorus of "Yankee Doodle" notwithstanding, and they paddled away from the Dependence with all they were worth. The galley, meanwhile, was engaged in several battles at once — besides the pesky singers passing off its side, the ship was firing at the shore to support its troops and maneuvering desperately to avoid the rocks close to shore. Given the darkness of the night, the confusion, and the wind that began to whip up, it would be but a mild surprise to find that they missed the little canoe entirely.
Alas, one cannot always count on surprises, mild or otherwise. The second blast from the nearest swivel gun was followed by a light patter somewhat similar to the sound rain makes on shale, assuming the rain is several degrees hotter than boiling and the shale much thinner than paper. The bark of the canoe literally disintegrated in a puff of steam and smoke. Martin fell face first into the water, striking his head with such force that he was knocked senseless. Jake was able to stay upright and hold onto his oar, which provided some comfort if not protection as a wave dashed him into a large and not very soft rock. He clambered onto it, then saw Martin's distress; he dove back into the river just as a sailor aimed the Dependence's swivel at him.