Caleb's brain was still muddled by the effects of the drink. He continually blinked his eyes, as if focusing them could sharpen his thoughts.
"The boy said they would come for us," he said finally. The words were somewhat slurred. "I think we should wait."
"Were we supposed to stay in the jail after we were rescued?' ^ 1 argued Jake. "They've obviously made whatever decoy attack they were planning, and we're supposed to take care of the rest."
By now most of the other men had gotten up from their straw beds and staggered forward. The majority were simple farmers, and while their sympathies were with the king, until their imprisonment they probably would not have considered themselves active combatants. Still, their jailing had hardened their opinions, and they were anxious to escape. Those with families were very concerned for their safety. So Jake did not have to provoke them too hard to get a consensus: there was no time like the present to leave.
The first rush at the door nearly reversed that decision, as the six volunteers were repelled not so much by the wood but the fierce pounding of blood against their brain pans. Fortunately, the barrier had started to give way, and Jake was able to organize a second posse, which split the lower panel in two. He kicked through the wood and was able to upend the wooden bar with his hand; one more bounce against the door with his shoulder and the metal lock snapped free.
He glanced at Caleb, then cautiously stepped through the portal — there was always the possibility the commotion had drawn reinforcements. The street was as empty as a village clerk's office five minutes to supper time. "Let's go!" he shouted from the porch. "Everyone out." "What about Wedget?" asked one of the Tories inside. "What about that bully bastard?" responded another. "I say, leave him to his fate." "We ought to kill him. Damn rebels'll prob'ly set him free."
Once more Caleb and Jake exchanged glances. "I don't think that's wise," said Jake. "I think we should take him along, same as everyone."
But the sentiment was strong against him. Caleb finally shrugged — as the bully was not part of the ranger troop, he did not care to exert himself in his defense.
"Well, come on then." Jake led the group down the street, past the barn and in the direction of the bridge where he had hoped to meet van Clynne last night. He was struck by a sudden fear that he might meet the Dutchman now; the squire had a tendency to involve himself in the worst situation at the least opportune moment.
Jake need not have worried, for van Clynne was hurrying in the opposite direction, determined to show the upstart little girl that his path to Putnam was indeed shorter and faster.
Perhaps the word "hurrying" is not entirely accurate. It could be used to describe the initial stages of his journey, as he prodded his horse along the road, grumbling about the fact that children no longer showed the proper respect for their elders. He shared his theory as to how this had come to happen with his horse; in abbreviated form, it had to do with their parents allowing them to wear shoes at a young age.
The horse, who had worn his own shoes from early colt hood, did not make much comment. Nor did he respond to the Dutchman's requests to avoid hitting the ruts in the road as he traveled. But the animal was only too happy to comply when van Clynne loosened his makeshift rein and let him take a slower pace.
A considerable amount of time had now passed without van Clynne having acquainted himself with food. While one might think that his experiences with Major Dr. Keen had vanquished his appetite for good, the exact opposite was true. In fact, the Dutchman's voracious nature had been stoked beyond its usual capacity by the previous afternoon and evening's activities. The more van Clynne thought about it, the more he concluded that his way of getting to General Putnam's headquarters was so much faster than Rose's that he could easily afford a short respite from the ardors of the journey, and still beat her.
As it happened, he knew of a very accommodating innkeeper who lay a short turn off a minor detour not a quarter of a mile up the lane. With the imagined scent of bacon tickling his nose, he shook his lead and encouraged the horse to pick up his pace.
Chapter Twenty-seven
While Jake was doing his best to let himself be captured several hours earlier, Captain Busch was trying equally hard to escape. Busch had to sneak through the dense underbrush for several miles to avoid the Rhode Islanders who had ambushed them. When he reached the highway without any sight or sound of them, he took off his green coat and hat, realizing he'd increase the odds of surviving by doffing signs of his alliance.
Still, removing the coat felt perilously like striking the flag, and the ranger captain suffered a pang of regret as he stuffed the green badge of his honor beneath a rotted tree trunk. He went out onto the roadway, and paced in the dusty rut along the far side back to the south, hoping Smith would appear soon.
Busch walked back and forth like that for nearly an hour, willing his man to rush out of the woods with his cocky attitude and declare he would sooner fight the entire rebel army than surrender. When that didn't happen, Busch began to fear Smith had been captured. He trusted the new man like few others he had ever met, and knew he would keep quiet about his mission. But that alone might provoke the American rabble into killing him, especially if Smith were still wearing his uniform.
Reluctantly, the Tory admitted he must leave his subordinate temporarily to his fate. Smith had at least one chance of salvation if captured — before leaving the farm near Salem, Busch had given Sergeant Lewis strict orders to carry out the attack on the rebel jail within two hours of dawn, even if he himself hadn't returned by then. He had reasoned not only that Corporal Evans and possibly Johnson needed to be freed, but that he and Smith might be among the internees by then.
The rebels were likely to think the spy they were chasing would head back toward British lines in the south, so Busch temporarily headed north, intending to turn west and double back as soon as possible. Still wet from his swim, the Tory leader alternately walked and trotted through the darkness. He had grown up here, and knew the countryside intimately, but much of it seemed foreign to him, as if he'd been plunked into a far-off country. He could not fathom why so many of his neighbors had allied themselves to the revolutionists. Without the stability of the crown and the order of law, he reasoned, men were no better than a pack of dogs in the woods.
Busch's mood lifted a bit when he came to the property owned by Horace Fiddler. Now retired and near seventy, Mister Fiddler had been for many years a teacher — his teacher as a matter of fact, and he flattered himself that the old man had even taken a shine to him. Tiptoeing onto his land, he recalled a morning many years before when Fiddler had praised his ciphers. He remembered the moment fondly, and used it to justify his temporary rental of the old man's horse.
With a whispered promise not to harm it, he led the old mare from the yard to the road, waiting until he was out of sight of the house to board her. The animal was not used to being ridden — Mister Fiddler hitched her to a small kittereen or two-wheeled light carriage for his travels — and turned her neck in amazement at this unfamiliar task. But Busch persevered, gently goading the animal, and was soon riding at a steady if slow pace.
As the safest path back to Stoneman's lay over Pine's Bridge anyway, Busch decided to meet up with his ranger troop as they assaulted the jail. He got off the horse as the sun dawned; by then he was no more than two miles from the small crossroads hamlet where the church was located.