The Iron Chain (3 page)

"I have only dry biscuits to offer you myself. But there is an inn not too far from here, owned by a fellow named Prisco. An agreeable sort — if you told him you are on your way to Schuyler, I daresay he'd advance you the price of a good meal."

"We are well acquainted with Justice Prisco," said Jake. "In fact, that is our destination, since we hope to stay the night there."

And more, perhaps, as Prisco's inn was the same where Claus van Clynne had fallen in love not a week before. Sweet Jane — but perhaps it is better not to burden the reader with her portrait at present.

The Dutchman, having gained an understanding of the overall need for supplies and seeing firsthand the severe effect on morale, had already resolved to assist in remedying the situation — especially as he realized a ready profit could be made. Thus he was now all the more anxious to get to the inn and see Jane — whom he would entrust to make certain contacts on his behalf with merchants further north. He mounted his horse and sat nodding and clearing his throat while Jake spent an inordinate number of seconds bidding the captain farewell.

The gray-dappled stallion Johnson had so graciously bequeathed the patriot spy was a large, well-mannered beast that accepted Jake's long legs gracefully. It was a powerful horse, and would gladly have broken into a gallop if its new master had wished. But Jake, ignoring van Clynne's continued complaints, kept the pace slow to ease the strain on his injured mare, following behind. Despite the Dutchman's shortcuts — there was not a cow path in the state he did not know, nor a route he could not cut by five minutes — night had covered them with a heavy blanket of darkness before they reached Prisco's. The innkeeper himself greeted them in the yard between the large but simple frame tavern and the adjoining barn, used by Prisco as the stable. He had just come from checking on his assistant and some horses.

"Well, well, Mr. Gibbs. And the redoubtable Squire van Clynne," said Prisco, holding up his torch. "My niece will be glad to see you."

"And I her," admitted van Clynne, an uncharacteristic shyness suddenly entering his voice and tying his tongue.

"Judge, my mare has hurt her leg," said Jake, dismounting to show him. "I'm afraid she'll be made into some soldier's dinner."

Prisco — Jake called him judge because he was the local justice of the peace — examined the animal with a gentle hand.

"I do not think the injury is that bad," he concluded. "We shall nurse her back to health if you can spend a few days."

"We have business north," said Jake, "but I would be obliged to you if you watched her for me. I will pay for her feed."

"All she needs is a few days' rest. New shoes, too," added the innkeeper, examining them. "It's difficult to find a smith these days; all the good ones and most of the rest have been put to work on the chain. But Elmer's lad should do a passable job." He called to his stable boy and turned the horses over to him.

"Does this horse look familiar to you, Judge?" Jake asked as his stallion was taken.

Prisco's round face turned quizzical as he studied Johnson's horse. Neither it nor its former owner were known to him, but he confessed that this did not necessarily go for much.

"My politics are well known. Few British spies have the audacity to announce themselves, though I daresay they have darkened my halls. It is hard to tell these days who is friend and who is foe," added the keeper, who had to stretch himself considerably to pat Jake on the shoulder. "Come now, I've just tapped a new barrel of ale."

"I've thirsted for it all day," said van Clynne, leading the way.

_{-Chapter Three-}

Wherein, Jake plays a portentous game of chess.

W
illiam Shakespeare earned
much praise by comparing his mistress to a summer's day. Three times as many accolades would be won by a poet who could compare the object of Claus van Clynne's desire to some natural wonder, as the metaphor would be wilder and the language further stretched. Ovid's metamorphosing and Homer's blindness would both be put to strong use.

Or to place it another way — sweet Jane has proven her patriotism under fire and has many other fine qualities, but alas, physical beauty is not numbered among them. Her nose does not quite fit her face, her eyes are off-line, her legs off-kilter. She is sweet, she is brave, but she is decidedly plain.

Do not suggest this to the Dutchman. Nay, admit no impediments to his true love. Once inside the inn he made straight for the summer kitchen, where he found the girl laboring over a plum pie, her homespun dress clinging neatly to her skinny hips and her mobcap tied with a light blue ribbon the Dutchman had left during his last visit. The words they exchanged, the looks — that pie had not half as much sugar.

Jake, meanwhile, took up a corner in the inn's great room not far from the fireplace, which was lit even though it was a warm night. The polished wood-paneled walls glowed a soft red with reflected light and warmth. The patriot spy reached up and plucked a large pewter tankard from the recessed shelf near his chair, appropriating the largest drinking vessel in the place.

But he filled it with Prisco's mildest cider. In truth, Jake had earned a bit of rest, and did not have a pressing agenda — the distance to Albany could be traversed in a third of the time allotted, if he cared to do so. It would be natural for the lieutenant colonel to relax with a full helping of the fine brown ale Prisco was noted for. But a condition of wariness pressed upon him, and restlessness as well. The Rhode Island captain had lit a hot fire of concern in Jake's breast. Not for the first time in the war he worried that he could not do enough to help his cherished Cause to victory. Thus he studied the crowded room and its contents carefully. The sturdy chairs and chestnut planks beneath them seemed to hold no secrets; at first blush, neither did their occupants.

These were the usual assortment of characters one finds along our highways. There were, naturally, local farmers talking politics and sopping up ale and cider; a traveling mechanic, who in conversation revealed himself to be something of a cross between a wheelwright and carpenter; a trading merchant or two, with an ear out for a likely deal. In the far corner of the room, two men with white beards and bare pates were hunched over a small but well-scrubbed pine table, playing checkers. The old fellows had been similarly occupied the last time Jake and van Clynne visited the inn; they pushed their pieces along at lightning speed, as if rehearsed.

Jake got up to stretch his legs and stood by them thinking perhaps it might be diverting to engage in a game. He also thought these ancients might have an idea about the identities or business of the three men he had earlier dispatched to Pluto's vale.

"I wonder if I might play the winner," suggested Jake, pulling up a chair near the old men.

Neither man answered. The game was almost over, with red about to have a third man queened — an oxymoron that nonetheless gave him a crushing advantage. Two moves later, black was cleared from the board. The combatants regrouped, changing colors and ignoring Jake.

"Next game then?" he asked hopefully, trying to appear solicitous.

When there was no acknowledgement, he decided the old geezers must be hard of hearing. Jake was about to wave his hand between them to get their attention when he was tapped on the shoulder by a man whose vigorous manner made his frame appear taller than it was, indeed, taller instead of shorter than average. About his own age and dressed much as Jake in the rough clothes of a farmer, the fellow had a quality in his smile that immediately invited a person to like him.

"Gladly," said Jake, who called for a refill as the stranger set up the game on an old keg near a drafty window at the side.

"John Barrows," said the man, sticking his hand out over the game board.

"Jake," answered the patriot spy.

If the fact that he had given only his first name bothered Barrows, the farmer didn't let on, plunging happily into the competition. The match proceeded quickly; the stranger was not very good and Jake had four queens on the board before his drink arrived. But the man was nothing if not stubborn, staying in the contest until the bitter end.

"Draughts is not my game," he confessed. "Now chess — there's a game for me."

"You play chess?" asked Jake. "I haven't played since I was in London."

"Yes, I play — I wonder if the keeper has a set," said Barrows. He jumped from the chair and went to find Prisco, returning not only with a set but with a candle to provide better light.

Jake's guard by now had eased; he decided to enjoy a game with his new companion and draw him out on the local situation at his leisure. It was not often one found a chance to play chess these days.

To make conversation, he told Barrows he'd come down from Fishkill. It was true enough, except that it omitted his recent foray in New York City. They exchanged some other pleasantries and minor bits of gossip. The man said the neighborhood leaned to the Whig side, though there were plenty of people like Beverly Robinson who still held with the king. Jake supplied only bare hints of himself, pretending to be traveling on unspecified business.

Their chat was curtailed by the quickness of the game: Barrows’ skill once more proved less advanced than his enthusiasm, and Jake had his king pinned before twenty moves had passed.

The man's expression, which had been jolly enough considering the circumstances, turned positively delirious. Were there no candles or fire, his teeth alone could have lit the room.

"I believe that would be welcome," he said. "Very welcome."

Jake had never seen anyone so ecstatic over a game of chess, not even in Parsloe's, the London hangout of Andre Danican Philidor and the rest of the English chess scene. Amused, he began moving his pawns forward in haphazard fashion, deciding that he would give his companion a double advantage.

This proved unnecessary. Jake had made only four or five moves when he realized that his opponent's game had improved sharply—so much so, in fact, that it was like facing an entirely new man across the board, a man who not only had a two-rook advantage, but had Jake's picket of pawns in deep trouble. It was Breed's Hill all over again — the redcoats, or in this case the white pawns, had charged ahead into the line while the patriots waited. Finally, the muskets opened up — a bishop slashed, a knight reeled, and Jake stood as naked as Gates on the battlefield. He struggled to pull his pieces into a protective cordon, wielding his dragoons and rangers as Washington had when he retreated up Manhattan Island, but it was no use; as brave as his men were, they were outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. The game ended with queen pinned and king checked — as should all wars.

"The handicap was your undoing," said the man graciously, extending his hand to Jake as he pinned the queen.

Having unmasked some portion of his true skill, Jake expected Mr. Barrows would now ask if he wanted another game, with a small side wager to keep things interesting. The patriot spy was just deciding whether his game was strong enough to take up such a challenge when his opponent surprised him once again, taking a small, carved junk or pipe from his vest and asking if he would join him outside for a smoke.

"I like to get a good breath of fresh air in the pipe as I smoke," said Barrows. "It is an odd habit of mine, but I believe it enhances the flavor of the leaves."

Jake gave a glance to the corner where van Clynne and Jane were occupied in a curious courtship ritual involving the communication of spirits through the ether. The pair appeared so enmeshed as to be dumbstruck, gazing into each other's eyes with less intelligence betrayed on their faces than on that of the average duck. Such a sight alone was enough to send Jake running outside for a smoke.

There was a second factor. Jake had noted during the last match that the man's hands were not so calloused as one would expect from a farmer, especially with the heavy plowing and sowing not long completed. It was a possibly significant anomaly.

"What did you say your name was?" asked the man as they reached the porch. Though of less than average height, his shoulders were wide and his muscular legs stretched his breeches tight.

"Jake Smith," he said smoothly, trusting that the natural tone of his voice would allay doubt about the common alias. There are, after all, a great number of Smiths in the world, even if there are a greater number claiming to be them.

"You were in London."

In that instant, Jake's loose suspicions became a definite theory — this Barrows was a Tory and an unusually bold and clever one.

Jake drew smoothly on the proffered pipe and nodded his head. "Yes." He handed back the pipe and self-consciously pulled his hair back into its ribbon, as if nervous. "Before our troubles."

Jake realized the man was no ordinary Loyalist, content to keep his politics covered until the local tide turned. Barrows must be a recruiter working behind the lines, as accomplished at his job as at his chess game.