The bullets ricocheted off the rocks and sent up a pronounced splash, but once more the patriot spy had escaped harm, his impulse to save the soldier proving his own salvation. In two quick strokes he reached Martin and hauled him over his shoulder; Jake found a sandy spot on the shore and pulled him up to safety.
By now the galley was too concerned with its other problems to waste time bothering with shipwrecked singers. Jake quickly propped the unconscious Martin against a tree, then began racing north along the shoreline, heedless of the sharp rocks and cragged roots beneath his feet. Within a league, the soles of his wet boots were sliced through, his ankles swelling from the severe pounding against the uneven terrain. His lungs were near bursting and his knee was sorely strained.
How much further he could have gone before collapsing — even Lieutenant Colonel Jake Gibbs must have his limits — will remain an unanswered question, for Providence had decided in her generosity to provide him with a small, open rowboat, a fisherman's craft complete with oars and tackle, placed directly in his path. Jake jumped into the boat with great haste, more sure than ever that God was on the side of the Revolution.
The Creator undoubtedly is, but if He placed the small boat there, He is not without a sense of humor. For Jake had gotten only a few yards out from shore when he noticed water lapping against his sore ankles; a few more strokes and he realized the water was now to his calves. He put his back into the oars and hauled with all his might, hoping that he might somehow avoid or at least lessen the rush of water if he could move ahead quickly enough. But the river was relentless, and before he had gone a half mile his thighs were nearly submerged. Jake continued to row, but within a few minutes realized that his progress was slowing to a crawl.
The glow of fires from Fort Montgomery on the west bank illuminated the river ahead like the flickering flames of a stove in an empty house. Fits of yellow light played out like water spirits across the Hudson, and dark, lumpy shadows sat before him, gargoyles guarding the cathedral of Freedom. Except that one of those shadows must be Busch, as determined to reach the chain as Jake was to stop him.
His boat was no longer of much use, but Jake feared he would have a difficult time swimming against the river, roiling with the growing storm. There seemed no other option, however, for his short pause had allowed the water to lap over the gunwales. He made sure the ruby-hilted assassin's blade was secure in his belt, removed his sodden boots and socks, and tossed off his vest. Throwing one of the oars ahead of him to help as ballast, he dove into the icy cold water.
The Hudson's current is a varied thing, depending not only on the time of day but the location and perhaps Nature's momentary whimsy. Jake found it suddenly veering in his direction, but that was little consolation. As he looked up from the water, he expected at every second to see a brilliant flash of red: Busch's canoe igniting with the Tory's terrible wrath.
Jake had not lost hope that Rose had notified Putnam, and at every second prayed patriot patrol boats had been strung like a necklace in front of the chain. For a brief moment he was sure the shadow he was nearing was one. But as he reached for it, the hulk darted back against the shoreline, and he realized it was a trick of the reflected light. The rain was dampening the poor illumination and blurring his eyes, and now the river's strange sounds began crowding into his head, thrusting him into a Hadeslike maze.
Jake kicked with all his strength, but his energy was nearly gone; he feared he would lose this battle. He let go of the oar, deciding that it was slowing his progress. Stroking ahead, he determined to make one last lunge for the dark line that protected his young country's fate, or drown in the attempt.
A moment later, he noticed a thick shadow ten feet away that seemed different than the others; while it too moved away and changed shape, it did so slowly. With another stroke, he realized it was a real, solid object, with another ahead, and now he could pick voices out from the chaos — Busch giving orders, the two boats knocking harshly against each other.
And then he heard the hard creaking of the iron chain against its log supports ahead.
The slap of the bomb canoe against the hull of his own craft sent Busch's heart to his stomach. While he knew that theoretically the charge could only be activated by the fuse, he did not want to test that theory here. He pushed the vessel off with his hands and found himself straddling the water, his legs still in the lead canoe.
For a brief moment he felt a twinge of panic, fear shaking his grip. Then he caught hold, and used his arms to bring the bomb canoe close again. As his assistant steadied their craft, the captain climbed aboard and took up the paddle he needed to propel himself the last league to the chain.
The rain was now sufficient to have soaked entirely through to his skin. But he welcomed the growing storm as an ally, for the more difficult the river, the greater his chance of success.
While the scene was dim and confusing to Jake's eyes, Captain Busch interpreted the fires on the bank below Fort Montgomery as being considerably brighter tonight than when he scouted the chain, even with the rain. Busch believed a good lookout would have spotted him by now, and undoubtedly alerted the patrols on the shore. Indeed, a whaleboat loaded with soldiers had been dispatched and was hurrying across from the western terminus.
"There," he said, pointing to a dark froth still protected by the shadows of the cliffs. "That will be one of their patrols coming for us."
"I'll hold them off, sir."
"Just draw them away," said Busch. "I only need a minute to reach the chain. The bomb will explode within ten minutes, once the fuse is set."
"Won't you have trouble with the fuse in the rain?"
"It's all mechanical," Busch assured him. "Just hold these men off and our success is guaranteed. You can do it; you're worth ten of them."
Busch didn't hear the response, if there was one. He was already paddling hard. While working the other canoe had been difficult, moving this one was practically impossible, with the immense dead weight of the bomb acting against him.
It's a few yards, no more, Busch told himself. I must do it, and I shall.
The British sailor let his canoe drift momentarily with the current, waiting for the whaleboat to approach. Had someone told him the day before that he would sacrifice himself against the rebel rabble, he would have laughed heartily — after punching him in the face. But this ranger captain had somehow filled him with pride, and shown him that the destruction of the chain was not merely his duty, but an enterprise that would rank with Drake's defeat of the Spanish in the Channel. How much greater would the fame be, when two men alone took on the rebels, and broke the Revolution's back in a single night?
And so the Devonshire native waited grimly for the whaleboat. Though his orders were to lead it away, he was determined to put up enough of a fight that the damn Americans would be close enough to feel the flash of fire from the explosion — a mere taste of the reception that waited the bastards in hell.
The man's attention was so focused on the boat making its way to his left that he did not hear Jake's breast strokes to his right, nor realize where the true danger lay until Jake's hand was on the side of his canoe. By then, it was too late, for summoning all his strength, the patriot yanked the boat out from under its occupant, sending the seaman tumbling over him into the Hudson.
The sailor's foot kicked Jake's head as he went over, hitting him in the eye and raising a welt. More importantly, the blow knocked the ruby-hilted knife from Jake's hand, throwing it into the river and leaving Jake without a weapon save his own battered hands and legs.